THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

A.   M.   Botaford 


* 


MOLY 


A    BOOK    OF    POEMS 


BY 


CURTIS  MAY 


NEW   YORK   &    LONDON 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 


1887 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

CURTIS  MAY 

1887 


Press  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York 


PS 

2-31 L, 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MOLY    .    - I 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TOWER 2 

BEATRICE  CENCI 7 

IN  SORROW 8 

TRANSPLANTED 9 

LITTLE  HANDS 9 

To  LIZZIE 10 

THE  GOLDEN-ROD 10 

THE  SUMMER  RAIN 12 

THE  FLOWER- ANGELS 13 

THE  ALPINE  HORN 13 

THREE  SHIPBOARD  PICTURES 14 

APRIL 17 

THE  SONG  OF  A  DREAM-ANGEI ig 

CLINTON — Two  YEARS  OLD ig 

AMONG  THE  LILY-PADS .22 

OCTOBER  SNOW 23 

THE  EAGLE  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  TOP     ....  23 

A  WONDER 24 

THE  BROKEN  FRIENDSHIP 24 

CONVENT  LACE 25 

CORNER  GRATT 27 

A  STORY       .........  27 

HOMESPUN 29 

IN  THE  DARK 30 

THE  LILY 31 

THE  OCKLAWAHA  RIVER 32 

DEAD  HANDS 33 

iii 


790340 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

MAY  THIRTIETH 34 

A  NlGHT-SONG  AT  SEA 34 

AWAY  FROM  HOME 35 

LULLABY 37 

THE  STATUE 37 

BEAUTIFUL  EYES 38 

THE  BOY'S  CONFESSION 39 

THE  BELLS  ACROSS  THE  WATER 41 

THE  FIRTH  OF  CLYDE 41 

THE  CAMP-FIRE 42 

SABBATH  SONGS 44 

THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  DUNGEON         .        .        .  45 

THE  STORM  OVER 46 

THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING 46 

THE  CHILD  I  NEVER  HAD 49 

THE  SLAVE-MARKET  AT  ST.  AUGUSTINE       ...  50 

YE  CROONING  WAVES 51 

GROWING  OLD 52 

THE  DIFFERENCE 53 

DONALD 54 

My  SONG 55 

IN  THE  COLOGNE  CATHEDRAL 56 

PRESIDENT  GARFIELD — DEAD 57 

THE  MATTERHORN 58 

How  THE  BROOK  CAME  DOWN 59 

SINCE  I  HAVE  KNOWN  You         .        .        .        ,        .  60 

THE  "  ANGEL'S  MEADOW  " 61 

THE  STORK'S  NEST 62 

THE  LITTLE  GERMAN  GIRL 63 

THE  FISHER-BOY 64 

GOOD-BY,  HEIDELBERG         ......  65 

SHE  SINGS                                                                 .        .  66 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGB 

THE  HOPES  OF  LONG  AGO 67 

A  YEAR'S  HISTORY 68 

LEAVING  THE  BODY 69 

THE  WOOD-WIFE .70 

A  ROSE-BUD          ........  72 

A  HOPE  FOR  LEIGH 72 

THE  ROSE     .........  73 

OPEN  THE  WINDOW 75 

A  SONG  FOR  MARGARET 76 

IT  is  THE  MOON 77 

HE  LOVES  ME 78 

O  STAR,  SHINE  ON  ! 79 

WHEN  IT  FADES 79 

MIZPAH 80 

THEN  AND  Now 81 

His  MONUMENT 82 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  ALPS 83 

THE  EDELWEISS 84 

THE  DROP  IN  THE  CLOUD 85 

LOVE  RESURRECTED 86 

TWILIGHT  SONG 87 

THE  TALE  OF  THE  BOAT 87 

THE  SENTINEL 88 

ELIZABETH    . 89 

GRIEF — A  FRIEND go 

YOUR  KINGDOM 91 

LITTLE  BESSIE 92 

SONNET  ON  SEPARATION 93 

THE  MEASURE  OF  LOVE 94 

THE  OLD  GRAY  HOUSE 95 

TIME 96 

WAITING  08 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

HEART  OF  MINE 99 

FROM  MY  WINDOW 100 

A  CHANCE  LOOK 101 

GREECE 102 

GOOD-BY  TO  THE  OLD  HOUSE IO4 

GONE  AWAY 105 

UNTRUE 107 

IF  THEY  KNEW 107 

I  HAVE  SEEN  THEM  TOGETHER 108 

THE  MIRACLE 109 

THOUGHTS no 

A  MEETING m 

A  PORTRAIT in 

A  DREAM  OF  PYGMALION 112 

WAIT 113 

A  WHITE  ROSE 114 

WINTER 115 

A  SONG  TO  LOVE 118 

To  A  MARBLE  MERCURY 119 

JESSIE 120 

THE  BROKEN  SPAR 122 

THE  LITTLE  WIFE  AT  HOME 122 

AWAKENMENT 123 

ISRAFlL 124 

PROHIBITION  PARTY  SONG 125 

THE  CHARGE 126 

THE  OLD  MAID'S  CLUB 127 

LASTING  BEAUTY 129 

ON  SHAKESPEARE  .        .        ; 130 

ON  LONGFELLOW 130 

HOBNER'S  CHRIST-CHILD 131 

THE  JEWISH  FLUTE 133 


MOLY. 

A  PLANT  whose  little  candle  lights  the  leaves 
With  one  white  flame,  fed  by  a  bulbous  root ! 
No  garland  from  its  stars  the  maiden  weaves  ; 
The  peasant  treads  it  with  unheeding  foot. 
Yet  Homer  pressed  it  on  an  endless  page. 
Ah,  dull,  black  root,  what  growth  has  burst  from 

thee 

And  lived  to  be  the  schoolboy's  heritage, 
Preserved  by  thought  for  all  the  world  to  see  ! 

Thou  hast  a  blessing  that  is  all  thy  own. 

Thou  dost  preserve  from  danger  and  from  sin  ; 
No  Circe-charm  from  unclean  thoughts  have  grown 

Where  thy  faint  essence  finds  an  entrance  in. 
Dull,  homely  flower  that  blooms  in  fancied  ground  ! 

Unseen  the  fingers  are  that  break  thy  stem, — 
Yet  virtue  in  thy  wholesome  draught  is  found, 

And   they  that   sip — no   snares   are  spread  for 
them. 

I,  too,  have  gathered  moly  where  it  grows — 
Some  in  dense  forest,  some  in  shady  glen, 

Some  in  the  sun,  with  heart's-ease  and  with  rose, 
Some  in  the  fields,  self-sown  amid  the  grain. 


2  THE   SECRET  OF  THE  TOWER. 

And  some,  where  frightened  thought  vibrates  tow 
ard  God, 

My  reverent  hand  has  gathered  over  graves, 
Where  the  close  seam  knits  ruptured  sod  to  sod, 

And  all  the  churchyard  rolls  in  verdant  waves. 

My  bunch  of  moly,  plucked  in  after  time  ! 

A  hand  that  loves  thee  lays  thee  on  the  leaf. 
And  binds  thy  modest  fragrance  into  rhyme 

That  thou  mayst  live  thy  life,  however  brief. 
If  some  tired  hand  should  hold  thee  for  a  space, 

Or,  hung  above  thee,  some  sad  eye  grow  bright, — 
Yield  up  all  that  thou  hast  of  humble  grace, 

Nor  mourn  that  after  day  there  must  be  night. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TOWER. 

TT  ARK  !  The  old  tower-bell  peals  one  ! 
*  •*•     An  hour  ago,  and  all  was  still 
As  when  the  crimson-setting  sun 

Sank  down  behind  the  western  hill. 
All  was  as  still,  an  hour  ago, 
As  those  low,  dreaming  reeds,  that  grow 
Upon  the  waveless  river  shore  ; — 
Or  lips,  that  never  shall  speak  more. 

Is  it  the  wind  that  wails  aloud 
Around  the  gray,  old  castle  wall  ? 

Or  did  a  heavy-hearted  cloud 

Send  out  from  heaven  that  piteous  call  ? 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE  TOWER.  3 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  shake 
The  lilies  in  their  placid  lake, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscures  the  light 
That  points  the  torches  of  the  night. 

And,  yet,  the  cry  is  shrill  and  clear 

That  echoes  through  the  quiet  night, 
And  falls  upon  the  startled  ear 

With  timorous  quavers  of  affright. 
And  see  !  Up  in  the  old  gray  tower, 
Veiled  by  the  shadows  of  the  hour, 
A  strange,  dim  radiance  is  shed  ; — 
And  yet  the  moonlight  long  is  dead. 

Up  in  the  little,  lofty  room, 

Where  the  wide  windows  faintly  glow, 
The  tranquil  spiders  plied  the  loom 

In  careless  toil,  an  hour  ago. 
Now,  all  is  changed  !     The  stained  walls  seem 
Hung  with  the  glories  of  a  dream, 
And  tapestries,  fold  thick  on  fold, 
Are  caught  apart  by  clasps  of  gold. 


And,  here  and  there,  a  picture  lends 

Its  magic  to  the  magic  scene, 
And  in  the  shadowy  corner  bends 

Against  the  wall  the  painted  screen  ; 
The  antique,  carven  mantel  shows 
Its  inlaid  wealth  of  India  snows, 
And  ebon  panels,  richly  set, 
With  gleams  of  red  and  violet. 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE  TOWER. 

There  in  the  centre  two  men  stand, 

Just  where  the  light  shines  full  and  bright, 
And  one  holds  in  his  clenched  hand 

A  sword  that  flames  far  in  the  night. 
And  one  is  young,  and  one  is  old  : 
The  three  score  years  of  one  are  told, 
While,  for  the  other,  life's  fair  spring 
Sends  all  her  flying  birds  to  sing. 

Why  does  that  dark  brow,  like  a  cloud 

Hang  heavy  o'er  the  angry  eyes  ? 
What  does  that  cruel  mouth  shriek  loud 

That  echoes  in  such  fearful  wise  ? 
"Life  has  no  more  for  you,  old  man  ! 
Now  guard  your  honor  if  you  can  !  " 
From  sheath  to  hand  leaps  up  the  blade, 
But,  ere  it  falls,  the  hand  is  stayed. 

"  Oh,  think  before  you  strike  the  blow  ! 

Life's  pleasant  springs  shall  walk  in  green 
And  sparkling  winters  come  and  go, 

Nor  shall  that  blood-stained  hand  grow  clean. 
Yet  pause  !     The  rigid  arm  of  Death 
Must  stop  erelong  this  fluttering  breath, 
And,  though  you  hated  to  the  end, 
At  last  there  is  not  foe  nor  friend. 

"  Still  life  is  precious  to  the  old  ! 

What  matter  if  the  pulse  be  slow, 
Or  if  Time's  falling  sands  of  gold 

Are  tarnished  when  the  glass  runs  low. 
The  old  songs  thrill  upon  the  tongue, 
The  heart  forgets  it  is  not  young, 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE  TOWER.  i 

And  life's  last  embers  blaze  once  more 
Before  their  grateful  warmth  is  o'er." 

Alas  !     The  young  arm,  lifted  high, 

Has  no  respect  before  old  age, 
And  that  fierce  glow  that  lights  the  eye 

Reflects  a  burning  inward  rage. 
A  moment,  and  the  deed  is  done  ! 
Oh,  haste  away,  before  the  sun 
Shines  down  upon  that  frozen  face, 
And  seeks  in  vain  life's  last  faint  trace. 

But  now  the  first  dim  beams  of  day 

Come  shimmering  through  the  sunken  glade, 

And  those  weird  figures  melt  away, 
Departing  with  departing  shade. 

Two  faces,  locked  in  deadly  hate, 

Sullen,  defiant,  glare  at  fate, 

Then  dimmer,  dimmer,  dimmer  gleam, 

Like  broken  tangles  of  a  dream. 

The  tapestries,  that  sweep  about 

And  fold  their  richness  through  the  room 

Have  lost  their  silken  garlands  out, 

And  vanished  with  the  vanished  gloom. 

A  ray  of  light  comes  stealing  in, 

And  creeps  along  a  floor  worn  thin, 

And  fretted  ceiling,  woven  across 

With  lacey  webs  of  spider-floss. 

The  ivy  clings,  with  small,  green  hands, 

Around  the  weather-beaten  eaves  ; 
The  great  oak  rustles,  where  he  stands, 


6  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TOWER 

And  breathes  through  all  his  thousand  leaves. 
The  doves,  with  crimson-padded  feet, 
Sedately  pace  the  window-seat, 
And  cast  their  shadows  on  the  floor 
Where  human  footsteps  sound  no  more. 

If  one  should  ask,  what  was  the  strife, 
And  if  the  shapes  were  mortal  men, 

Tradition  wakes  her  tongue  to  life, 

And  whispers  through  the  years  since  then  : 

"  Two  knights,  who  bore  a  common  name  ; 

A  crime  that  stained  their  arms  with  shame : 

Two  souls  that  never  can  forget, 

But  wander  unforgiving  yet !  " 

Old  tower,  gray  tower,  so  bleak  and  high  ! 

A  long  hill  kneels  before  your  face, 
And  cloudy  outlines  of  the  sky 

Float  downward  toward  you,  in  your  place. 
What  is  the  all-pervading  charm 
To  fold  that  past  crime  in  your  arm, 
To  claim  a  dead  wrath  for  your  own, 
And  press  it  to  your  heart  of  stone  ? 

Do  you  not  know  that  years  will  bring 

A  slow,  sure  change  to  your  grim  height  ? 
Where  ivy-fingers  clasp  and  cling, 

Where  dappled  pigeons  whir  and  light, 
The  wall  will  crumble,  bit  by  bit, 
And  sweeping  round  and  over  it, 
The  wind  will  wrench  great  stones  away 
And  whirl  them  in  the  glade  some  day. 


BEATRICE   CENCI. 

And,  sometime,  when  the  world  is  old, 

A  dreaming  youth  shall  wander  past, 

And  watch  the  broken  threads  of  gold 

That  sun-striped  clouds  upon  you  cast  ; 
And  he  will  say  ;  "  This  fallen  heap 
Was  built  for  men  ;  but  now,  they  sleep  ! 
If  love,  if  hate,  or  joy,  or  woe 
Had  being  here — ah,  who  can  know  !  " 

And,  sometime,  when  the  autumn  air 
Veils  all  things  with  its  filmy  gauze, 

A  flock  of  pigeons,  flying  there, 

Shall  see  the  stately  oak,  and  pause. 

And  they  will  coo,  u  There  was  a  day 

Doves  fluttered  here  !  " — and  fly  away. 

Then  sink  your  hopes,  strong  mass  of  stone  ! 

Thereafter  you  shall  be  alone. 


BEATRICE  CENCI. 

OH,  sad,  sweet  mouth  of  the  picture, 
If  only  your  lips  could  part 
They  would  tell  a  tale  of  anguish, 

That  pierced,  once,  a  blithe,  young  heart ! 
But  the  heart  broke 
Ere  the  lips  spoke. 

The  tender  hopes  of  a  maiden 
One  day  froze  into  despair. 

No  word  rang  out  in  the  silence 
To  speak  of  the  struggle  there. 


IN  SORROW. 

Was  it  less  true 

In  that  none  knew  ? 

Oh,  eyes  of  sorrow  eternal  ! 

A  world  has  wept  at  your  grief  ! 
Long  life  has  the  painted  shadow, 
But  the  real,  hard  life  was  brief. 
You  have  known  long, 
Sighs  become  song. 


IN   SORROW. 

SORROW  has  laid  its  heavy  hand, 
O  Friend,  upon  thine  heart  to  still  it  : 
Yet  doubt  not  thou  shalt  rise  up  knight 
From  that  long  touch,  if  thou  dost  will  it. 

There  is,  in  grief's  unwished-for  call, 

An  undertone,  "  Friend,  come  up  higher  !  " 

For  every  mountain  ever  formed 
Sprang  forth  from  agonies  of  fire. 

Think  not  to  tremble  at  the  stroke, 

But  bare  thy  breast,  nor  fear  to  rue  it  : 

And,  if  thy  body  wear  away, 

'T  is  but  to  let  the  soul  shine  through  it. 


TRANSPLANTED. — LITTLE  HANDS. 


TRANSPLANTED. 

HPHERE  were  three  lilies,  tinct  with  cream, 
*•       That  blew  upon  a  single  stem, — 
'T  was  in  the  garden  of  a  dream, — 

And  heart-shaped  leaves  surrounded  them 
In  close,  cool  groups,  knit  edge  on  edge, 
That  danced  upon  a  shelving  ledge. 

A  cloudy  hand  of  silver  mist 

Stretched  down,  and  broke  the  stalk  in  two. 
The  leaves,  hemmed  in  a  woven  twist, 

Closed  o'er  the  wound,  as  hurt  hearts  do. 
A  humming-bird  went  darting  by, 
And  drained  each  waxen  chalice  dry. 

My  friend,  I  know  it  was  a  dream  ! 

But,  as  I  turn  and  mark  you  there, 
Three  scentless  lilies,  tinct  with  cream, 

Star  the  fine  darkness  of  your  hair. 
You  smile  ;  and,  as  I  look  at  you, 
I  almost  think  the  dream  is  true. 


LITTLE  HANDS. 

'"TWO  little  hands  of  white, 
*•       Folded  upon  the  breast, 
Draw  me  into  the  night, 

Away  from  home  and  rest, — 


JO  TO  LIZZIE. —  THE   GOLDEN  ROD. 

Out  to  a  churchyard  dim 

Where  wavering  shadows  fall, 

And  quivers  in  every  limb 
The  willow  beside  the  wall, — 

On  to  a  tiny  mound, 
With  hollow  either  side, 

Where,  in  the  cold,  damp  ground, 
We  laid  the  child  that  died. 


TO  LIZZIE. 

MAY  the  peaceful  years,  as  they  roll  along, 
Be  marked  by  snatches  of  faint,  sweet  song 
May  the  fingers  of  Time  be  lightly  laid 
On  the  ringlet  caught  into  silver  braid, 
And  may  no  sad  tears  from  thine  eyes  be  wrung, 
But  tender  hope  keep  the  old  heart  young. 


THE   GOLDEN-ROD. 

T^HE  golden-rod  !     The  golden-rod  ! 
*       Its  shining  clusters  pierced  the  sod, 
And  sunbeams  slipped  down  from  the  sky 
To  view  their  doubles,  eye  to  eye. 
We  pressed  the  fallen  gentian-stars, 
And,  through  the  open  meadow-bars, 
We  passed  where  tasselled  corn  stood  green, 
With  broad  leaves  opening  between. 
We  looked,  with  innocent,  great  eyes, 
And  cheeks  that  glowed  with  glad  surprise, 


THE   GOLDEN-ROD.  II 

We  looked,  and  found  that  all  was  good. 
Soft  voices  called  us  from  the  wood, 
Sweet  faces  smiled,  amid  the  fern, 
With  joy  that  we  were  swift  to  learn. 
The  whole  wide  universe  was  ours. 
For  us  the  summer  gave  her  flowers, 
For  us  the  spring  came  bubbling  up, 
And  soft  dews  filled  the  lily's  cup, 
For  us  the  evening  sky  grew  red, 
And  burned  in  blushes  overhead. 
But  naught  cared  we  for  gentian  blue 
That  burst  the  broken  hedges  through, 
Nor  did  we  watch  the  corn-ears  nod. 
With  gathered  bloom  of  golden-rod 
We  trudged  along  the  grassy  way 
To  where  the  village  churchyard  lay  : 
With  little  faces  shy,  yet  brave, 
We  sought  the  stranger's  sunken  grave, 
And  heaped  our  yellow  treasure  there 
Like  sunshine,  pressed  out  from  the  air. 

Ah  well  !     The  years  have  slipped  away, 

And  life's  first 'twilight  dims  our  day. 

The  shadows  overlap  the  red, 

And  sorrows  come,  with  stealthy  tread. 

Broad  coins  are  dearer  than  the  store 

Of  yellow  flowers  we  counted  o'er. 

Yet,  sometimes,  when  the  children  come, 

And  stand  within  the  cheerful  room, 

They  bring  the  fallen  gentian-stars 

That  twinkle  round  the  meadow-bars, 

And  heavy  plumes  of  golden-rod 

That  burst  their  bright  path  through  the  sod. 


12  THE   SUMMER  RAIN. 

Oh,  then  our  childish  dreams  creep  in 
And  purify  our  hearts  from  sin  : 
The  spirits  of  those  by-gone  years 
Glide  past,  and  look  at  us  through  tears. 
We  see  the  happy  little  band, 
The  big  bunch  in  the  baby-hand, 
And  where  the  stranger's  grave  is  found 
They  heap  their  blossoms  on  the  ground. 

O  pardoned  soul,  in  realms  remote  ! 
Leave  from  thy  song  one  single  note  ; 
Lean  down  from  heaven's  parapet, 
And  turn  thy  gaze  on  earth  once  yet. 
Behold  those  innocent  child-eyes, 
Upturned  to  watch  the  solemn  skies, 
If,  haply,  through  the  shaken  air, 
An  angel  sweep  down,  unaware. 
Mark  but  the  tender  thought  they  bring  : 
And  then  begin  once  more  to  sing  ; 
Turn  full  thy  face  to  that  of  God. — 
Dost  thou  not  bless  the  golden-rod  ? 


THE  SUMMER  RAIN. 

TT  falls — the  beautiful  summer  rain  ! 
*•     The  pearly  drops  on  my  window  beat  ; 
I  hear  them  patter  against  the  pane, 
Bright  little  fairies  with  dew-shod  feet. 

It  falls  !     It  beats  on  the  open  grave, 
It  raises  the  lily's  drooping  head  ; 

But  no  sweet  shower  can  healing  have 
That  thrills  the  blank  heart  of  the  dead. 


THE  FLOWER-ANGELS.  13 


THE  FLOWER-ANGELS. 

\\  7HEN  evening  comes,  with  drooping  wing, 
^  *       To  fold  o'er  fairy  bells  that  swing 

Vibrating  everywhere, 
Down  on  the  moon's  long  rays  of  light 
The  flower-sprites,  with  robes  of  white, 
Glide  through  the  darkening  air. 

In  tiny  tubes  the  dew  they  bring, 
And  tender  strains  they  faintly  sing, 

As  to  each  bud  they  fly  ; 
The  thirsty  blossom  holds  its  cup, 
The  heaven-sent  angels  fill  it  up, 

Then  swiftly  flutter  by. 

But  when  the  first  faint  flush  of  dawn 
Proves  night's  brief  sway  has  quickly  gone, 

They  melt  into  the  mist, — 
Their  wind-tossed  tresses  backward  spread, 
And  round  their  brows  a  halo  shed 

Golden  and  amethyst. 


THE  ALPINE  HORN. 

listen,  listen  !  O'er  the  mountains  ringing 
Comes  the  deep  echo  of  the  Alpine  horn  ; 
High  with  the  avalanche's  white  foot  clinging, 
The  melody  to  distant  peaks  is  borne. 


14  THREE   SHIPBOARD  PICTURES. 

The  reeds  that  fringe  the  mountain-lake  are  bend 
ing, 

And  stir  in  answer  to  that  mellow  call  ; 
The  eagle,  from  his  lofty  heights  descending, 

Seeks  the  strong  nest  built  on  the  rocky  wall. 

The  chasms  are  full  of  music.     Golden  glisten 
The  snowy  caps  that  crown  the  ruddy  morn. 

We  breathe  the  harmony.     Oh,  listen,  listen  ! 
Hail  the  clear  ringing  of  the  Alpine  horn. 


THREE  SHIPBOARD    PICTURES. 


NO  ship  is  in  sight  !     The  wide  horizon 
Unites  with  its  faint  line  sky  and  ocean. 
There  hovers  above  the  last  blue  motion 
The  fiery  cloud  the  red  sun  lies  on. 
He  lies  there  in  state  a  moment  only. 
The  cloud  closes  up,  like  clutching  fingers, 
And  holds  in  its  grasp  the  sun  suspended, 
Then  hurls  to  the  waves  that  beat  below  it. 
But  still  in  the  sky  his  glory  lingers, 
It  waves  and  it  quivers,  in  golden  rims  on 
Those  trumpets  of  cloud  that  breathe  and  blow  it  ; 
As,  tremulous,  fading,  kindling,  dying, 
It  mocks  with  its  glow  the  straining  vision, 
Till  ocean  and  sky  are  dark  and  lonely. 
Yet,  after  the  sunset  long  is  ended, 


THREE   SHIPBOARD  PICTURES.  15 

There  lives  in  the  soul  a  dream  Elysian 

Of  wandering  lights  on  a  field  of  crimson, 

Of  fiery  arrows  forever  flying, 

With  ripples,  and  mist,  and  cloud-streaks  blended. 

n. 

Slow  and  deep,  the  water's  song 
Breathes  the  lifted  keel  along. 
Calm  and  low,  the  evening  sky 
Hangs  its  banners  out  on  high. 
Would  you  think  that  all  could  be 
Brightly  flushed  on  cloud  and  sea, 
When  a  baby  sinks  down,  down, 
To  the  sea-weeds,  dank  and  brown  ? 

Hugging  to  his  marble  breast 

One  white  rose  to  share  his  rest, 

Living  rose  and  baby  dead 

Through  the  parted  waves  have  sped. — 

Mother,  in  the  home  you  seek, 

Will  you  kiss  a  little  cheek, 

Will  you  smooth  back  tangled  hair, 

And  forget  that  this  was  fair  ? 

When  the  lightning  hurls  its  dart 
Will  it  pierce  your  restless  heart  ? 
When  the  waves  dash  to  and  fro, 
And  the  tossing  vessels  go, 
Laden  deep,  from  land  to  land, 
Will  you  see  an  icy  hand, 
In  its  grasp  a  single  rose, 
Folded  where  the  sea-grass  grows  ? 


1 6  THREE   SHIPBOARD  PICTURES. 

Some  one's  baby  in  the  sea 
Draws  a  parting  thought  from  me. 
Still  the  cut  bud  leaves  a  scar 
Where  the  other  roses  are  : 
While  the  freighted  ship  goes  on, 
Still  a  mother  sits  alone, 
And  her  frightened  eyes  stare  back 
Toward  the  wee  grave  in  our  track. 


in. 

The  star-lighter,  with  broadened  wing 

Behind  the  red  wheels  of  the  day 
Flew,  where  the  twisted  ladders  cling 

That  link  long  leagues  of  milky  way. 
His  breath  swept  onward,  like  the  gale 
That  strikes  the  white  breast  of  the  sail 
His  eyes,  aflame  with  bootless  wrath, 
Before  him  burnt  his  giddy  path. 

We  could  not  see  his  angry  look 

From  where  we  sat  within  the  ship, 
The  finger  shut  within  the  book, 

The  word  as  close  within  the  lip. 
We  only  saw  that,  here  and  there, 
A  mellow  ray  stretched  through  the  air, 
And,  star  by  star,  the  sky  became 
A  trembling,  waving  sea  of  flame. 

A  sea  above,  a  sea  below  ; 

Between  two  seas  we  floated  on  ! 
All  this  was  but  an  hour  ago, 

Yet  every  yellow  gleam  is  gone. 


APRIL. 

They  hung  and  shook,  with  beauteous  fear, 
Until  the  cruel  wind  came  near, 
Who  caught  his  breath,  with  wail  and  shout, 
And  blew  the  starry  candles  out. 

When  will  the  spirit  come  again 
That  lit  those  far  fires  in  the  sky  ? 

Will  he  not  brush  the  heaving  main 
And  hurl  his  torch  where  shadows  lie  ? 

Not  even  the  moon  dares  show  her  light 

To  dip  and  whisper  in  the  night. 

As  quiet  as  the  breast  in  sleep, 

The  ship  lies  black  upon  the  deep. 


APRIL. 

O  APRIL,  sacred  to  tears  and  laughter  ! 
Thou  modest  dweller  in  country  lanes  !  • 
Glad  beams  of  sunshine  shall  follow  after 
The  crystal  drops  of  thy  gentle  rains. 

For  what  if  few  are  the  blossoms  willing 

To  heed  the  glance  of  thy  quiet  eyes  ! 
The  primrose  sits  in  her  low  chair,  filling 

The  earth's  quick  ear  with  impatient  sighs. 
The  shooting-star  has  his  fires  all  ready, 

The  snow-drop  puts  on  her  fresh  white  gown, 
And  grass-blades  are  holding  a  raindrop  steady 

For  thirsty  fibres  to  carry  down. 


1 8  APRIL. 

The  first  anemone,  flushed  and  trembling, 

Is  groping  now  with  her  slender  hand  ; 
Forget-me-nots  are  in  throngs  assembling, 

Beneath  the  ceiling  of  turf  and  sand  ; 
The  violet  fastens,  with  eager  fingers, 

Her  peaked  hood  under  her  dainty  chin  ; 
The  soft-eyed  daisy-bud  shyly  lingers, 

Afraid  of  meeting  the  outside  din. 
The  brook  throws  off  all  her  frosty  fetters, 

And  dons  her  bodice  of  meadow-grass  ; 
And  ants  spell  stories,  in  rugged  letters, 

Wherever  their  dusky  clusters  pass. 
The  bees  hum  brokenly  in  the  hedges, 

The  beetles  form  into  caravans, 
And  ferns,  that  tremble  along  the  ledges, 

Are  waving  their  green  and  half-curled  fans. 

O  April,  gleam  into  joyous  smiling  ! 

O  April,  cloud  into  sudden  tears  ! 
And  free  thy  heart  in  a  song,  beguiling 

The  rosy  springs  of  our  few  brief  years  ! 
If  scarce  thy  flowers,  yet  thy  buds  are  many, 

And  wild  birds  swing  on  thy  branches  bare, 
And  deep  in  woods  and  in  reed-beds  fenny 

Is  swept  thy  blessing  of  perfumed  air. 
Thou  knowest  naught  of  decay  or  sorrow  : 

Thou  hast  no  thought  that  thy  buds  must  die. 
Why  shouldst  thou  care  for  the  dim  to-morrow  ? 

To-day  laughs  yonder  the  wide,  blue  sky. 
If  grief  is  thine  that  no  strong  endeavor, 

No  end  attained  to  thy  lot  may  fall, — 
Yet  think  that,  in  life  and  in  action,  ever 

The  vague,  sweet  promise  is  best  of  all.   . 


THE   SONG  OF  A   DREAM-ANGEL.  19 


THE  SONG  OF  A  DREAM-ANGEL. 

LITTLE  one,  sleep  !     The  snows  gather  fast, 
And  drearily  float  through  the  air. 
Swiftly  the  cold,  on  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
Sweepeth  down  from  the  Northland  bare. 
But  dreamland  is  bright  with  lovely  flowers, 
And  time  rolls  by  in  golden  hours, 
And  little  rills  through  meadows  flow 
Where  bending  reeds  are  dipping  low, 
And  shining  trout  from  the  waters  leap. — 
Sleep,  little  one,  sleep  ! 

Little  one,  sleep  !     The  darkness  has  flown 
To  chill  the  earth  with  its  breath  : 

Paling,  the  sweet  stars  dimmer  have  grown, 
Like  eyes  as  they  close  in  death. 

But  the  wee  dream-angels,  robed  in  white, 

Over  the  daisies  roam  all  night ; 

And  they  press  the  little  sleeper's  hand, 

And  softly  guide  her  o'er  the  land. 

At  morn,  when  the  baby  wakes,  they  weep. 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep  ! 


CLINTON— TWO  YEARS  OLD. 

\~\  7 HAT  is  loveliest,  sweetest,  best  ? 

'  •      The  tinted  down  on  the  dove's  brown  breast  ? 
The  vivid  fire  of  the  berries  red 
That  cling  to  the  green  vines  overhead  ? 


2O  CLINTON — TWO   YEARS  OLD. 

The  scent  that  dwells  in  the  lily's  heart  ? 

The  storm  whence  fiery  arrows  dart  ? 

The  breath  of  the  sweet  south,  in  the  breeze 

That  sweeps  through  the  fragrant  locust-trees  ? 

The  faint  rose-flush  on  the  ocean-shell  ? 

The  gleams  and  glints  on  the  waves  that  swell  ? 

But  the  dove's  soft  breast  will  fall  to  dust, 

And  the  scarlet  berries  shrink  and  rust. 

The  thirsty  air  will  soon  drink  up 

The  perfume  in  the  lily's  cup. 

The  storm  bears  down  upon  its  wing 

Disease,  and  death,  and  suffering. 

The  odorous  breeze  goes  quickly  by  ; 

The  ocean-shell,  with  murmuring  sigh, 

Disintegrates  upon  the  shore. 

The  gleams  and  glints  are  seen  no  more. 

I  know  of  something  dearer  far 
Than  sweet  wild-phlox  and  roses  are. 
Two  fearless  eyes  of  honest  brown 
That  melt  to  smiles  the  firmest  frown  ; 
A  sunny  mass  of  tangled  hair 
That  dances,  curling,  in  the  air  ; 
Two  curving  lips,  that  never  yet 
Have  said  one  word  they  need  regret  ; 
Two  dimpled  hands,  two  sturdy  feet, 
In  daring  brave,  in  mischief  fleet. 

But  if  he  grows  to  manhood's  years, 
And  learns  the  need  of  bitter  tears, 
And  finds  his  sweetest  dreams  untrue, 
Yet  cannot  take  his  life  anew 


CLINTON— TWO   YEARS  OLD.  21 

To  build  it  up  with  knowledge  gained, 
Until  the  end  sought  is  attained  ; — 
And  if  his  yearning  heart  is  thrilled 
With  longings  not  to  be  fulfilled, 
And  he,  a  man,  like  other  men, 
Must  bear  his  load  of  grief — what  then  ? 

Oh,  then,  with  eyes  that  are  not  dim 
Because  misfortune  falls  to  him  ; 
With  tender  lips  that  bravely  smile 
Though  dark  his  life  looms  up  the  while  ; — 
Too  proud,  of  work  to  be  ashamed, 
Although  he  never  may  be  famed, 
Though  genius  may  not  sit  enthroned 
Upon  that  brow,  with  patience  crowned, 
Acting  as  his  own  artisan 
He  shall  become — a  gentleman. 

But  if  the  frank,  brown  eyes  should  close, 
And  from  the  round  cheeks  fade  the  rose, — 
And  if  the  golden  hair  should  lie 
By  time's  rough  hand  left  tenderly 
Unturned  to  manhood's  darker  hue, — 
Caught  from  the  shadows  wandered  through,- — 
And  if  those  lips  should  ne'er  unseal 
To  words  that  tenderness  reveal, 
But  keep,  like  robin,  thrush,  or  wren, 
An  inarticulate  love, — what  then  ? 

Oh  !  In  some  world  exceeding  ours, 
Whose  every  path  is  sweet  with  flowers, 
His  soul,  the  purest  thing  there  known, 
By  some  wise  instinct  of  its  own 


22  AMONG  THE  LILY-PADS. 

Selecting  elements,  will  frame 

Again  a  body,  with  the  same 

Sweet  merry  face,  not  older  grown, 

But  unafraid,  before  the  Throne  ; 

And  he,  an  angel,  baby-wise 

Will  smile  in  God's  own  answering  eyes. 


AMONG  THE  LILY-PADS. 

IN  among  the  lily-pads, 
In  the  warm,  clear  weather, 
Rocking  in  our  tiny  boat, 
Just  we  three  together. 
O'er  our  heads,  the  clouded  sky 

Bends  its  shining  arches, 
As  the  day,  in  sullen  pride, 
All  unnoticed,  marches. 

Years  may  come,  and  years  may  go  ; 

Life  may  find  new  meaning  ; 
Distant  seas  our  barks  may  sail, 

Strange  skies  o'er  us  leaning. 
What  is  gained  ?     We  only  know — 

Foul  or  pleasant  weather — 
Never  shall  we  float  again, 

Just  we  three  together. 


THE  EAGLE   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  TOP.    2$ 


OCTOBER  SNOW. 

THE  gentian  droops  her  fringed  lid  ; 
The  green  fern  curls  her  tender  feet  ; 
The  last  late  rose,  her  beauty  hid, 
Sheds  her  sad  petals,  dried  but  sweet. 

The  mad  wind  tears  across  the  wood  ; 

The  long  vines  loose  their  tendril  hold  ; 
The  leaves  that  through  the  frost  have  stood 

Pave  all  the  ground  with  red  and  gold. 

The  white  flakes  dazzle  as  they  pass 
From  branch  to  branch  of  yon  tall  tree, 

Then  gleam  a  moment  on  the  grass, 
And  fade  from  being  and  from  me. 


THE  EAGLE  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  TOP. 

THE  eagle  on  the  mountain  top, 
With  wide  wing  beating  through  the  sky, 
With  long,  strong  effort  gathered  up 
His  forces  for  one  mighty  cry. 

It  was  not  that  an  arrow's  point 

Had  pierced  that  throbbing  breast  in  twain  ; 
It  was  not  that  he  missed  his  prey, 

Or  strove  to  reach  the  heights  in  vain  : 


24  THE  BROKEN  FRIENDSHIP. 

It  was  not  that  his  eye  was  dimmed, 

Nor  that  his  speed  must  yield  to  rest  ; — 

He  only  missed  from  off  the  crag 
One  high  and  solitary  nest. 


A  WONDER. 

T  WONDER,  when  the  flying  bird 

*•     Shook  his  glad  wings,  and  paused  for  rest, 

And  all  the  air  around  was  stirred 

By  sweetest  music  ever  heard, — 

I  wonder  if  a  distant  nest, 
Its  plaited  straws  entwined  with  care, 
Seemed  for  an  instant  present  there  ! 

I  wonder,  when  he  flew  away, 

If  ever,  on  another  tree, 
He  thrilled  the  golden  summer-day 
With  notes  from  Paradise  astray  ! 

I  wonder  if  alone  to  me 
He  came  through  cloudy  miles  of  sky, 
A  message  couched  in  minstrelsy. 


THE  BROKEN  FRIENDSHIP. 


IT  was  so  beautiful,  while  it  lasted  ! 
If  ever  were  friends,  they  were  we  two  ! 
But,  like  a  home  that  the  storm  has  blasted, 
The  love  was  shaken  that  had  been  true. 


CONVENT  LACE.  2$ 

He  heard  a  rumor  that  went  a-flying, 

Only  a  story  that  some  one  told ; 
And  his  face  grew  pinched  as  he  were  dying, 

And  two  lives  dropped  from  their  heaven  of  gold, 

For  we  tore  our  long-joined  selves  asunder, 
Hope  and  memory,  fact  and  thought ; 

And  we  lost  the  rapture,  peace,  and  wonder, 
The  painful  pleasure  the  union  wrought. 

The  exquisite  dream,  that  had  yet  seemed  real, 
The  tearful  smile  and  the  smiling  tear, 

The  love  that  had  sheltered  a  pure  ideal, 
Gave  place  to  a  void  both  dark  and  drear. 

Yet  it  was  beautiful  while  it  lasted  ! 

We  loved  so  dearly,  we  loved  so  true  ! 
And  now  that  the  friendship  long  is  blasted, 

We  still  have  a  kindred  chord,  we  too. 


CONVENT  LACE. 

SHE  sits  within  her  lonely  cell, 
From  all  she  loves  apart ; 
The  sunshine  floods  her  narrow  pane, 
But  shadows  cloud  her  heart. 

Outside  the  barred  and  heavy  gate 
The  great  world's  din  is  heard — 

The  wagon's  creak,  the  horse's  tread, 
The  driver's  cheery  word. 


26  CONVENT  LACE. 

The  interests  of  an  active  life, 

'T  is  hers  no  more  to  heed  ; 
Her  part  to  wear  the  nun's  straight  dress, 

And  tell  the  holy  bead. 

The  shuttle  flies  within  her  hand, 
The  thread  winds  in  and  out ; 

The  bobbins  yield  their  treasures  up — 
She  works  in  mood  devout. 

Like  frost  upon  the  window  pane, 
When  winter's  breath  is  white, 

The  lace,  with  tracings  delicate, 
Glows  in  the  golden  light. 

As  fashioned  from  the  moon's  pale  beam, 

Too  frail  for  human  skill, 
'T  will  yet  outlast  the  longest  life 

That  shrines  an  iron  will. 

Yet,  O  pale  nun  !  the  thoughts  that  burn, 
And  wake  the  sleeping  heart — 

The  tender  word,  the  merry  laugh — 
In  these  you  have  no  part. 

By  you  no  manly  strength  is  roused, 

To  action  brave  and  true  ; 
No  little  child  upon  your  breast, 

Has  kindled  hope  anew. 

While  other  women  with  their  love 
Have  saved  an  erring  one, — 

While  they  have  built  a  home,  and  blessed 
A  father,  husband,  son, — 


CORNER   GRATT. — A    STORY.  2? 

While,  breaking  holy  bread,  their  lives 

Have  proved  one  sacrament, 
You  leave  behind  this  bit  of  lace, 

Your  only  monument. 


CORNER  GRATT. 

GOD'S  finger  drew  a  solemn  line  of  snow 
Around  thy  high  horizon,  lofty  peak  ! 
The  crimson  evening  glory  quivers  low, 

Fades,  kindles,  dies  :  the  stars  come  out  to  seek 
Respondent  lights,  that  gleam  along  the  ice 
Bereft  of  warmth, — a  glow  in  chrysalis. 

In  that  green  valley  nestled  at  thy  feet 

A  hundred  happy  homes  have  lit  their  fires  ; 

The  weary  find  their  evening  rest  is  sweet, 
Who  own  no  hope  that  loftier  aspires. 

But  thy  last  gleam  rolls  not  upon  their  sight — 

Peace  in  the  valley, — glory  on  the  height  ! 


A  STORY. 

YOU  have  known  the  frog  that  went  a-wooing, 
And  the  spotted  doves,  whose  tender  cooing 
Lulled  the  two  children  in  the  wood  : 
You  have  slyly  peeped,  with  eyes  of  wonder, 
In  the  wicker  basket,  swinging  under 
The  arm  of  wee  Red  Riding  Hood  : 


28  A    STORY. 

It  was  you,  no  doubt,  and  not  another, 
Who  stood  by  the  fairy  old  Godmother, 

When  Cinderella  wept  that  night  ; 
And  I  think  you  knew — what  girl  knows  better  ! — 
The  hopes  and  wishes  that  beset  her 

For  unknown  splendor  and  delight. 

You  have  sought  along  the  thorny  hedges 
When   the    Prince   broke   through   their   crowded 
edges, 

And  woke  the  Beauty  from  her  sleep  : 
Your  sweet,  red  lips  are  brimming  over 
With  childish  lore,  like  tubes  of  clover 

That  nod  where  grass  grows  green  and  deep. 

Yet  I  must  tell  a  new,  long  story 

Of  brave  old  knights,  and  battles  gory, 

That  you  have  never  heard  before  ! 
You  lay  in  mine  your  fingers  slender, 
And  look  at  me  with  eyes  so  tender 

I  cannot  think  of  stories  more. 

I  can  only  think,  "  I  love  you,  Baby  !  " 
'T  is  an  old  tale  ;  but,  sometime,  may  be 

It  will  seem  strange  and  sweet  to  you. 
For  sometimes  even  an  old,  old  story, 
Told  by  new  lips,  seems  touched  with  glory, 

The  dearer  that  it  is  so  true. 


HOMESPUN.  29 


HOMESPUN. 

OF  homespun  is  the  modest  gown, 
Wherein  my  Love  goes  clad  ; 
And  yet  her  regal  eyes  shine  down, 
As  if  their  splendid  deeps  of  brown 
From  under  pressure  of  a  crown 
Were  making  my  heart  glad. 

And  wooden  are  the  little  shoon, 
That  hold  her  slender  feet  ; 

But,  when  the  heart  of  leafy  June 

Is  shaken  by  a  merry  tune, 

How  light  she  trips  beneath  the  moon, 
With  smiles  how  warm,  how  sweet  ! 

No  glove  is  drawn  upon  the  hand 

I  dearly  love  to  hold  : 
But  when  upon  the  silver  sand 
The  sunset  hurls  its  burning  brand, 
I  kiss  her  fingers,  where  we  stand 

Full  in  the  cloven  gold. 

What  marvel  if  I  love  her  true, 

My  little  peasant  lass  ! 
The  very  air  the  sun  shines  through 
Distils  for  her  a  special  dew, 
And  harebells  fringe,  with  sudden  blue, 

Her  footprints  in  the  grass. 


3<D  IN  THE  DARK. 


IN   THE  DARK. 

DARK,  dark  !  I  cannot  see 
One  step  before  me. 
Clouds  gather  threateningly, 
Dimming  Thy  glory. 
I  cannot  understand 
What  Thou  for  me  hast  planned, 
But  I  can  feel  Thy  hand 
Leading. 

Once  on  a  human  heart 
I  leant  securely, 
Learned  in  the  simple  art 
Of  loving  purely. 
If,  in  this  soul  of  mine, 
Grief  keeps  a  hidden  shrine, 
Measure  my  love  by  Thine, 
Judging ! 

Dark,  dark  !     And  yet  the  wrong 
Lies  in  me  only, 
That  life  should  seem  so  long, 
And  hard,  and  lonely. 
Even  in  the  dark,  a  prayer 
Reaches  Thy  listening  ear, 
And  grief  falls  off,  and  care, 
Praying. 


THE  LILY.  31 


THE  LILY. 

'"THOU  art  a  link  from  the  seen  to  the  unseen, 
*•       O  sweet,  white  lily  ! 
The  elements  of  the  universe  thou  siftest 
And  choosest  what  thou  wilt. 
By  subtle  power  thou  mouldest  them  between 
Thy  shadowy  fingers  : 

Then  all  thy  force  in  one  tall  shaft  thou  liftest, 
In  silence  planned  and  built. 

A  golden  glory  nestles  in  thy  heart, 

O  sparkling  lily  ! 

A  thousand  snows  condensed  thy  flower  outshineth, 

Thy  self-formed  monument. 

From  out  the  caldron  of  thy  root,  apart 

By  night  distilling, 

Hour  after  hour,  thine  upward  growth  refineth 

Thine  own  delicious  scent. 

A  message  God  has  sent  to  me  in  thee, 

O  fragrant  lily  ! 

If  from  the  earth's  black  depths  thou  pure  arisest; 

By  some  plant-instinct  wise, 

Then  shall  I  doubt  an  equal  power  in  me 

For  rising  higher  ? 

Rooted  in  darkness,  thou,  O  soul  !  suffices! 

For  bloom  in  Paradise. 


32  THE   OCKLAWAHA   RIVER. 


THE  OCKLAWAHA  RIVER. 

'  'T'WIXT  marshy  banks  on  either  side, 

*•     With  watery  threads  extending  wide, 
The  river  winds  along  her  way, — 
Her  sombre  darkness  wreathed  with  spray. 

A  river  !  'T  is  a  sentient  thing  ! 
A  fitful  pulse,  the  eddying 
Throbs  in  and  out,  with  feeble  force, 
Along  the  current's  steady  course. 

The  sun  shines  down  his  calm  good-day, 
The  river  sparkles  'mid  her  gray. 
'T  is  a  soul  that  answers  back  a  soul, 
One  look  interpreting  the  whole. 

Majestic  palms  along  the  shore 
Repeat  their  grandeur,  o'er  and  o'er  : 
The  tall  white  cypress  trees  are  crowned 
With  mistletoe  from  fairy  ground. 

The  blushing  maples'  vivid  red 
Flames  in  the  branches  overhead  : — 
What  heeds  the  little  river  how 
The  birds  sing  on  yon  jutting  bough  ? 

What  heeds  she  that  the  holly,  kissed 
Into  deep  blushes,  in  the  mist 
Of  soft,  gray  moss  has  veiled  her  face, 
Clinging  in  intertwined  embrace  ? — 


DEAD  HANDS.  33 

Her  only  care,  to  find,  at  last, 
A  resting-place,  her  course  all  past, 
And  pour  her  fluent  beauty  down, 
A  perfect  gem  in  St.  John's  crown. 


DEAD  HANDS. 

DEAR  hands,  so  long  from  service  weary, 
So  swift  in  duty,  howe'er  dreary, 
So  prone  to  right,  so  slow  to  wrong, 
To-night  I  hold  thee  fast  and  long, 
Yet  cannot  wake  the  will  in  thee 
To  render  kindness  unto  me. 

Dear  hands,  so  skilled  in  household  ways, 

So  kind  in  smoothing  gloomy  days 

Into  a  sunny  happiness  ! 

Oh,  without  thee  to  aid  and  bless, 

How  shall  I  lead  the  path  aright 

That  winds  to  thee,  from  out  the  night  ? 

But  yesterday  I  held  thee  close. 
I  could  not  dream  this  tide  of  woes 
Would  plunge  me  deep  into  despair 
More  gloomy  than  thy  peace  is  fair  ! 
To-day  these  tender  hands  have  found 
The  way  to  give  my  heart  a  wound. 

No  more,  no  more,  these  hands  of  thine 
Shall  quiver  to  a  touch  of  mine  ! 
No  more  shall  open  wide  the  door 
That  seals  my  spirit-sepulchre  ! 
Alas  !  wave  beaten  on  life's  sands, 
I  only  hold  these  poor,  dead  hands. 


34  A    NIGHT  SONG  AT  SEA. 


MAY  THIRTIETH. 

BURIED  in  the  narrow  grave, 
Friend  and  foe  are  laid  together  : 
Slender  grasses  nod  and  wave, 

Blowing  in  the  warm  spring  weather. 
Let  them  rest  !     Let  them  rest  ! 
With  their  brave  hands  on  the  breast. 
In  these  graves  below  the  sod 
Waiting  God. 

Cheek  to  cheek,  and  heart  to  heart, 
So  the  bitter  strife  was  ended. 

Who  shall  wrench  the  thoughts  apart 
Where  their  memories  are  blended  ? 

They  have  kept  the  peace  for  years, 
Under  snow,  and  under  clover. 

We  bring  only  flowers  and  tears 
To  the  free  the  grass  grows  over. 


A  NIGHT-SONG  AT  SEA. 

WE  lie  at  rest, 
O  God,  upon  Thy  sea  ! 
The  tides  that  come  and  go 

Are  heavings  of  Thy  breast  : 
Thy  great  heart  beats  below, 
And  what  have  we  to  fear  ? 
We  know  that  Thou  art  near, 
And  trust  our  all  to  Thee. 


A  WA  Y  FROM  HOME.  35 

We  sleep  secure  ! 
Nothing  Thy  care  can  move, 
Nothing  can  shake  our  faith. 
Thy  watchfulness  is  sure, 
And,  if  Thou  send  us  death, 
Still,  in  Thy  mighty  sea, 
Our  hearts  shall  lean  on  Thee, 
Pillowed  upon  Thy  love. 


AWAY  FROM  HOME. 

'T'HE  grand  old  organ  sounded 
1       In  the  proud  cathedral  to-day  : 
Then  swung  the  cloudy  censer, 

And  the  people  knelt  to  pray. 
But  I  thought  of  a  quiet  city 

Across  the  shining  sea, 
And  my  prayer  went  over  the  distance, 

O  mother,  to  home  and  thee. 

O  mother,  mother,  mother  ! 

There  's  not  a  saint  on  the  wall, 
In  the  niche  not  a  Holy  Mary, 

But  thine  image  blurs  it  all. 
For  I  think  of  the  gloomy  forest, 

And  the  old  home  at  its  rim, 
And  the  dear  ones  around  the  fireside, 

Till  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim. 

Oft  in  the  quiet  night-time, 

When  my  eyes  are  closed  in  sleep, 


36  AWAY  FROM  HOME. 

There  comes  to  me  a  vision, 
And  then  my  content  is  deep. 

I  see  the  little  island 

Where  the  sturdy  oak-trees  stand, 

And  the  river,  red  with  sunset, 
Set  between  dark  curves  of  land. 

I  see  the  shady  garden, 

I  hear  the  sweet  bird-trill ; 
The  ripening  grapes  hang  clustered 

Down  on  the  terraced  hill  : 
We  children  play  in  the  clover 

Abloom  in  the  summer  sun, 
And  mother  sews  at  the  window, — 

And  I  wake, — the  dream  is  done. 

O  mother,  the  dream  is  over, 

And  only  the  night  remains  ! 
The  children  are  no  more  children, 

And  life  brings  sorrows  and  pains. 
The  sun  sets  red  on  the  river, 

And  the  trees  their  old  guard  keep, 
But  one  lies  under  the  clover 

In  rest  that  is  long  and  deep. 

And  yet,  although  months  divide  us, 

And  to-day  we  are  leagues  apart, 
There  is  one  thing  closely  joins  us, 

And  that  is  a  loving  heart. 
'T  is  a  loving  heart  has  written 

To  bridge  the  wide,  deep  sea, 
And  send  a  page  of  remembrance, 

O  mother,  to  home  and  thee. 


LULLABY. —  THE    STATUE.  37 


LULLABY. 

T    ULLABY  !  shut  your  eyes  ! 
*-**     If  an  evil  spirit 
Sweep  up  from  the  shaken  earth, 
Do  not  think  to  fear  it ! 
What  can  do  the  baby  harm, 
Held  so  fast  in  mother's  arm  ? 

Lullaby  !  lullaby  ! 

If  an  angel,  singing, 

Fly  down  from  the  holy  choirs, 

Life  immortal  bringing, 

Mother's  arm  must  yield,  't  is  true, 

But  her  love  will  go  with  you  ! 


THE  STATUE. 

A    PAIR  of  pleading,  childish  eyes  ; 
-**•     A  little  outstretched  hand  ; 
A  soft,  straight  length  of  loosened  hair  ; 

Two  bare  feet  in  the  sand  : — 
The  sculptor  passed  her  by, — and  yet 
That  vision  he  could  not  forget. 

He  stood  before  the  uncut  stone, 
A  dream  absorbed  his  thought ; 

The  hand  that  held  the  chisel  moved. 
Unknowing  what  it  wrought  ; 


38  BEAUTIFUL  EYES. 

And  as  he  cut  the  stone  away, 

Down  streamed  the  golden  light  of  day. 

A  pair  of  pleading,  childish  eyes  ; 

A  little  outstretched  hand  ; 
A  soft,  straight  length  of  loosened  hair  ; 

Two  bare  feet  in  the  sand  ;  — 
She  begs  forever  there  in  stone, 
Like  that  fair  land  she  calls  her  own. 

You  almost  see  a  marble  tear 
Roll  o'er  the  round  cheek  down. 

The  bosom  seems  to  rise  and  fall 
Beneath  the  sculptured  gown. 

Almost  she  breathes — there  need  but  be 

One  touch  to  give  vitality. 

One  touch — but  that  he  cannot  add  : 

Not  all  the  sculptor's  skill 
Can  lodge  within  that  perfect  head 

One  spark  of  human  will. 
Here  lie  the  bounds  that  must  confine  : 
One  step  more,  and  it  were  divine. 


BEAUTIFUL    EYES. 

"DEAUTIFUL  eyes  !  O  beautiful  eyes, 
-•— '   Lit  from  the  fires  of  Paradise  ! 
Bright  with  the  light  of  girlhood's  morn, 
Strong  with  the  knowledge  of  power  new-born, 
Softer  and  dearer  they  grow  to  me, 
Those  two  deep  wells  of  eternity. 


THE  BOY'S  CONFESSION.  39 

I  see,  in  their  depths,  a  struggle  past, 
And  Peace  on  her  quiet  throne,  at  last ; 
And  Hope  looks  from  the  shining  door, 
Where  Grief  and  Anger  sat  before  : 
I  see  the  careful  Self-Control, 
Brave  guardian  of  a  conquered  soul. 

I  've  watched  those  eyes  when  all  was  bright, 
And  seen  them  filled  with  love's  soft  light  : 
I  've  marked  them  when  the  tear-drops  fell ; — 
But  never  have  I  loved  so  well 
As  now,  when,  from  the  mortal  strife, 
Shines  out  a  saved,  but  wounded  life. 


THE  BOY'S  CONFESSION. 

C\  MOTHER,  did  you  ever  see 
^•^  A  caged  bird  that  was  just  set  free  ? 
And  did  you  see  him  stretch  each  wing, 
And  mount  toward  heaven,  and  gayly  sing, 
And  sing,  and  mount,  till  heaven  was  won, 
Greeting  once  more  the  well-known  sun  ? 
You  never  saw  it  ?     But  you  know 
How  the  warm  life  must  bound  and  glow 
Beneath  the  breast  of  speckled  down  ! 
To-day  I  saw  a  tiny,  brown, 
Pulsating  thing,  that  shook  and  thrilled, 
And  could  not  be  a  moment  stilled. 
It  turned  its  little,  frightened  eyes 
From  side  to  side,  in  such  surprise 


4O  THE  BOY'S  CONFESSION. 

And  terror !     If  I  could  forget ! 
But  that  look  haunts  my  being  yet. 

0  mother,  I  will  tell  you  all ! 

It  fluttered  down  upon  our  wall, 
And  was  so  pretty,  and  it  sang 
Until  the  whole  great  garden  rang. 

1  knew  it  would  be  very  wrong 
To  rob  its  nest  of  that  sweet  song, 
But  still  I  wanted  it  so  !     Well, 

I  threw  a  stone  and  then  it  fell. 
'T  was  only  wounded  in  the  wing, 
But  it  had  ceased  to  thrill  and  sing, 
And  looked  as  if  it  were  in  pain, 
And  tried  to  fly — and  sank  again. 
Within  my  hand  the  bird  grew  cold, 
And  so  the  story  all  is  told. 
For  all  the  tears  that  have  been  shed 
Never  brought  back  a  thing  once  dead. 

The  story  all  is  told,  I  said, 

I  only  meant  the  bird  is  dead. 

But  I — there  burns  within  my  breast 

A  vision  of  that  empty  nest. 

I  see  it  ruined,  and  I  know 

That  but  for  me  it  were  not  so  ; 

I  see  the  sad  mate  fluttering  round, 

Call  for  the  bird  dead  in  the  ground. 

I  do  not  mourn  the  being  blamed — 

I  did  wrong,  and  I  am  ashamed. 

I  cannot  sleep  !     It  almost  seems 

The  bird  would  come  to  me  in  dreams. 

But  I  am  glad  you  know  the  whole, 

A  weight  is  rolled  off  from  my  soul. 


THE  FIRTH  OF  CLYDE.  41 

I  never  could  have  told  another  ! 
How  good  it  is  to  have  a  mother  ! 


THE  BELLS  ACROSS  THE  WATER. 

AS  sweet  as  fairy  pipes  in  June, 
When  every  rose  is  blowing  ; 
As  tender  as  earth's  harmony, 
When  Nature's  heart  is  glowing  : 
The  bells  across  the  water. 

As  faint  as  echoes  from  the  past 
That  in  the  heart  are  swelling  ; 

As  tuneful  as  the  reed,  when  Pan 
His  inmost  soul  was  telling  : 
The  bells  across  the  water. 

As  swift  as  parting  hours  before 
Our  loved  ones  go  forever  ; 

They  tinkle  in  our  memory 

Though  vanished  from  the  river, 
The  bells  across  the  water. 


THE  FIRTH  OF  CLYDE. 

"THE  Firth  of  Clyde  ! 
•*•       Between  its  shores  the  vessels  sail, 
With  long  wings  waving  to  the  gale. 
The  little  towns  are  strung  along 
Like  notes  that  dot  a  page  of  song. 


42  THE   CAMP-FIRE. 

The  mountains  lift  their  misty  heads, 
Half-rising  from  their  solid  beds, 
As  on  the  waters  glide. 

The  Firth  of  Clyde  ! 

The  storm  may  beat  its  surging  waves, 

And  hurl  the  sailors  to  their  graves  ; 

But  in  my  fancy  there  will  be 

A  picture,  fair  in  memory, 

With  village  huts,  with  castles  gray, 

Unknowing  increase  or  decay — 

To  changeless  calm  allied. 


THE  CAMP-FIRE. 

\I  7E  sat  around  the  fitful  light 

*  "       Our  brushwood  fire  sent  high  ; 
The  brands  peered  far  into  the  night 
With  red  and  restless  eye. 

The  thick  cross-stick  of  charring  wood 

Our  gypsy  kettle  bent ; 
Close  by,  white  in  the  bushes,  stood, 

Half-lit,  the  nearest  tent. 

One  silent  fisherman  far  out, 
Leaned  from  his  silent  boat ; 

In  silvery  waters  leapt  a  trout ; 
We  heard  one  last  bird-note. 


SABBATH  SONGS.  43 

Through  lashes  made  of  trailing  clouds 

One  quiet  moon  looked  down  ; 
Where  ripples  tossed  their  arms  in  crowds 

There  shone  a  fainter  one. 

No  softer  hummed  the  ancient  bees, 

On  sweet  Hymettus'  brim, 
Than,  through  the  stirring  boughs,  the  breeze 

Low-breathed  his  vesper-hymn. 

The  firelight  plucked  at  each  still  face 

With  long  and  eager  hands, 
While  shadows  hurried  through  the  place 

And  met  in  restless  bands. 

Of  fires  built  on  the  hill  we  spoke 

Where  Persian  sunlight  streams, 
Where  kneel  the  simple  Eastern  folk 

To  worship  those  bright  gleams. 

We  told  full  many  an  olden  tale, 

And  many  a  laugh  went  round, 
Till  Echo  held  in  her  deep  dale 

A  carnival  of  sound. 

And  other  words  were  whispered  low  : 

But,  and  thou  wilt  know  more, 
Go,  ask  it  of  the  reeds  that  grow 

On  that  calm  river-shore  ! 


44  SABBATH  SONGS. 


SABBATH  SONGS. 

SWEET  Sabbath  songs  of  days  gone  by, 
Ye  fill  mine  eyes  to-night  with  tears, — 
Like  incense  on  some  altar  laid, 
Whose  odor  steals  from  other  years. 

Not  sacred  songs  alone  were  wont 
To  send  to  heaven  their  tuneful  lay, 

But  those  that  steal  into  the  soul 
And  melt  the  coarser  self  away. 

Dear  "  Annie  Laurie  "  ran  along  : 

"  Across  the  far,  blue  hills,  Marie  !  " — 

"  I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs,"  too, 
And  then,  "  We  'd  better  bide  a  wee." 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee  !  "  we  sang. 

God  sent  his  angel  down  to  hear, 
And,  from  our  happy  household  band, 

He  drew  one,  ever  to  be  near. 

Gone  now  for  aye,  sweet  Sabbath  songs  ! 

In  all  the  world  none  sound  for  me  : 
Yet,  echoing  in  mine  inmost  heart 

Rings  music  struck  by  memory. 

Forever  gone  from  out  my  life  : 

Yet,  not  all  lost  to  noble  use, 
Ye  lift  me  to  my  higher  self, 

And  all  my  bonds  of  being  loose. 


THE   SKELETON  IN  THE  DUNGEON.       45 


THE  SKELETON  IN   THE   DUNGEON. 

AT    ST.    AUGUSTINE,    FLORIDA. 

FOUR  heavy  walls,  a  low,  stone  roof 
That  with  eternal  moisture  drips  ; 
A  tiny  corner  kept  aloof, 

Where  fungus  from  the  gray  rock  sips  : — 
What  hands  have  hewn  this  nook,  for  sin 
To  hide  some  dreaded  secret  in  ? 

Oh,  worse  than  Chillon's  storied  cell 

'Neath  calm  Lake  Leman's  swelling  breast, 

Where  dim  gray  light  in  baptism  fell, 
And  broke  the  eye's  unwelcome  rest  ; 

No  glimmer  here  the  shadows  woke, 

No  sound  the  awful  silence  broke. 

Imprisoned  here  when  life  was  young, 
To  wail  for  Death's  delivering  hand  : 

While  every  nerve  with  health  was  strung, 
And  golden  ran  each  minute's  sand  : 

All  hope  of  rescue  cut  away, 

A  living  corpse  they  shut  from  day. 

But,  Essence  delicate  and  strange  ! 

Free  soul  that  cannot  be  confined  ! 
Beyond  the  heavens'  utmost  range 

By  God's  own  finger  scrolled  and  lined, 
Thou  smilest,  where  forgiveness  is, 
On  this,  thy  worn-out  chrysalis. 


46  THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


THE  STORM  OVER. 

A     THOUSAND  Marguerites  opened  their  eyes, 
*"»       This  morning  out  in  the  meadow, 
Where  the  golden  wings  of  the  butterflies 

Tremble  through  sun  and  shadow. 
The  brown  lark  rose  from  her  grass-hid  nest, 
Where   the  wild  night  through,  she  had  found 
safe  rest. 

The  sweet  wild  violets  shook  their  heads, 

Each  in  its  light  blue  bonnet : 
The  bees  that  swarmed  round  the  garden  beds 

Hummed  still  their  olden  sonnet  : — 
But  the  oak,  that  fell  with  the  lightning  stroke, 
Lies  on  its  face  where  its  brave  heart  broke. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

IF  ever  skies  are  faintly  blue, 
And  stars  look  down  with  golden  eyes, 
And  wide,  thin  veils  of  cloud  hang  down, 

Blown  out  through  chinks  from  Paradise  ; 
When  all  the  solemn  woods  are  thrilled 
With  songs  that  drift  and  float  away, 
And  every  plant  sings  out  in  buds 
Be  sure  it  is  the  month  of  May, 


THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING.  47 

Sweet  May  brings  flowers  with  lavish  hands 

To  scatter  on  the  springing  grass  : 
The  peasant  girls  in  mended  gowns 

May  stoop  and  pluck  them,  as  they  pass. 
And  May  brings  thoughts  of  Long  Ago, 

With  hopes  to  soothe  the  bitter  heart ; 
And,  best  and  tenderest  of  all, 

The  Golden  Wedding  stands  apart. 

O  wedding-day  of  years  gone  by  ! 

O  holy  words,  and  spoken  prayer, 
And  blushes  sweet  as  apple-blooms 

That  shape  their  pink  stars  through  the  air  ! 
If  Heaven  is  shut  to  longing  souls, 

Yet  sometimes  Eden  opens  wide  : 
And  angels  smile  out  through  the  eyes 

That  light  the  fair  face  of  a  bride. 

The  years  sped  by,  as  years  must  speed, 

And  children's  fingers,  soft  and  warm, 
Were  laid  upon  the  mother's  lips, 

And  held  the  father's  steady  arm. 
The  baby-voices  died  away, 

Yet  vibrate  in  the  ends  of  space  : 
The  parents'  eyes  still  trace  with  love 

The  child-looks  in  the  grown-up  face. 

'T  is  fifty  years  !  The  children  went 
To  new  homes  dearer  than  the  old  : 

The  tale  of  life  is  long  and  sweet, 
But  still  the  story  soon  is  told. 

As  men  and  women  in  the  world 

They  mix  with  life,  they  work,  and  roam  : — 


48  THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

And  some  God  took,  with  loving  arms 
To  hold  them  till  the  parents  come. 

'T  is  fifty  years  !  The  hair  is  white 

That  frames  the  temples  worn  with  care, 
'T  is  fifty  years !  The  feeble  step 

No  longer  now  is  light  as  air. 
Not  old  !  With  seventy  years  behind 

And  God's  eternity  before  ! 
Not  old  !  Yet  stepping  toward  the  boat 

That  nears  so  fast  a  distant  shore. 

They  are  not  old  !  Their  eyes  have  gained 

A  look  of  Heaven  that  is  so  near. 
Young  hearts  may  beat  in  aged  breasts 

To  melodies  we  cannot  hear. 
To-day,  for  daughter,  son,  and  friend, 

The  smile  of  love  is  clear  and  bright, 
And  we  rejoice  to  hear  the  words, 

"  My  children  all,  come  home  to-night  !  " 

The  way  is  long  to  those  far  homes, 

But  still  they  come,  from  South  and  West, 
To  press  the  withered  cheek  once  more, 

And  rest  upon  a  mother's  breast. 
If  you  should  hear  a  sound  of  wings, 

And  almost  see — you  know  not  what  ! — 
Parents  of  angels  !  Could  you  think 

Your  Golden  Wedding  was  forgot  ? 

It  may  be  that  the  time  is  short 
Before  a  Father's  voice  shall  call, 


THE   CHILD  I  NEVER  HAD.  49 

It  may  be  that  another  year 

Will  drop  the  message  sure  to  all. 
What  then  !  From  age  to  endless  youth, 

From  shadowy  paths  to  perfect  light 
They  go,  and  seek  His  waiting  arms 

Who  soon  will  say,  "  Come  home  to-night  !  " 


THE  CHILD    I   NEVER  HAD. 


A  BABY  with  rings  of  dusky  hair, 
And  beautiful  eyes  of  deepest  brown, 
With  doubled  pink  fists,  and  dimpled  arms, 
A  comfort,  a  trouble,  a  joy,  a  care, — 
Now  sleeping  soft  in  its  trailing  gown, 
Now  crying  over  its  own  alarms, 
Or  cooing  low  that  its  heart  is  glad, — 
This  is  the  child  that  I  never  had. 

When  low  in  the  crimson  the  pale  sun  lies, 
My  wicker  chair  in  its  place  I  set, 
I  look  out  over  the  dreamy  skies, 
And  suddenly  feel  that  my  eyes  grow  wet. 
I  long  to  press  on  my  lonely  breast 
A  wee,  sweet  face  that  was  never  mine, 
As  I  watch  the  glow  creep  out  of  the  west 
And  die  on  the  dim  horizon-line. 

O  happy  mother,  with  fretted  life, 
And  hands  that  hurry  in  endless  tasks, 
Barred  in  by  the  holy  vow  of  wife 
That  gives  all  freely,  and  nothing  asks. 


50  THE   SLAVE-MARKET. 

When  the  work  is  hard,  and  the  rest  is  brief, 
When  the  fingers  ache,  and  the  heart  is  sad, 
And  scalding  tears  give  a  short  relief, 
Think  once  of  the  child  that  I  never  had. 

By  the  little  cradle  that,  to  and  fro, 
Rocks  gently,  timed  with  your  tender  song  : 
By  the  baby-clothes  that  you  sit  and  sew, 
Think  not  that  your  story  is  dull  and  long. 
Remember  only,  the  mother-heart 
In  some  has  never  a  child  to  own, 
And  love  and  liberty  dwell  apart, 
Since  rest  from  labor  means  life  alone. 


THE  SLAVE-MARKET  AT  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

SEVEN  massive  pillars  on  a  side 
Hewn  from  coquina,  rough  and  gray, 
Uphold  a  strong  and  lofty  roof 
That  glimmers  in  the  light  of  day. 
The  pavement  shows  no  time-worn  break, 
No  crumbling  dust  portends  decay. 

This  is  the  spot  where,  as  the  morn 
Hung  coyly  out  her  red  and  gold, 
And  the  soft  scroll  of  earth  and  sky 
From  cloudy  darkness  was  unrolled, 
A  group  of  negroes,  huddled  close, 
Sleepless,  were  waiting  to  be  sold. 

From  home  and  friends  forever  torn, 
What  anguish  pierced  each  anxious  heart. 


YE   CROONING  WAVES.  51 

Whom  God  had  joined  in  marriage-bonds 
Almighty  Gold  had  power  to  part. 
What  Christ  had  bought  with  flowing  blood 
Men  bartered  at  the  unhallowed  mart. 

Yet  all  is  past  !     And  round  about 
The  old  slave-market  beauty  smiles. 
The  great  salt  bay  its  arms  extends 
In  blessing  over  sunken  miles, 
And,  folded  on  its  heaving  breast, 
Sparkle  and  glisten  fairy  isles. 

The  rude  old  columns  upright  stand  : 
Yet  no  mark  on  the  place  is  set ! 
And  on  the  roof  the  dews  of  heaven 
Glitter  when  morning  grass  is  wet. 
While,  o'er  the  base,  an  ivy  flings 
Its  green  and  ever-flickering  net. 


YE  CROONING  WAVES. 

V/"E  crooning  waves  that  weep  forever, 

1       Lapped  on  the  broad,  blue  ocean, 

No  power  your  tossing  plain  shall  sever 

From  infinite  commotion. 
Ye  roll  in  dull,  eternal  sorrow, 

With  strength  and  blessing  mingled, 
Unaltered  still,  as  each  to-morrow 

From  God's  unknown  is  singled. 

Ye  weep  the  dead  that  sleep  forgotten, 
Ye  seized  in  stormy  weather : 


52  GROWING  OLD. 

Ye  mourn  the  stout  beam,  now  grown  rotten, 

That  held  the  ship  together. 
The  light  that  fell  in  golden  dashes 

Through  dim,  translucent  distance, 
To  myriad  rainbow  sparks  and  flashes 

Is  shattered  by  your  mist-lance. 

With  feet  that  hesitate  and  tremble 

Ye  touch  each  country  shyly  : 
Ye  see  the  seeming-true  dissemble, 

The  simple  planning  slyly. 
Ye  grieve  ;  ye  cannot  see  the  ending 

Of  all  earth's  pain  and  anger. 
Your  soft,  monotonous  voice  is  sending 

A  moan  from  out  its  languor. 


GROWING  OLD. 

I  CANNOT  bear  to  think  of  growing  old  : 
To  feel  the  hand,  at  morn  and  evening  laid 
In  tender  benison  upon  my  head, 
Falter  and  fail,  as  strength  declining  wanes, 
And  time  draws  out  the  current  from  its  veins 
To  leave  it  withered,  motionless,  and  cold. 

I  am  afraid  to  think  of  growing  old  ! 

There  is  a  voice  that  daily  in  my  ear 

Has  uttered  praise,  the  sweetest  I  can  hear. 

It  leads  me  by  a  chord  from  soul  to  soul. 

How  can  I  bear,  as  future  years  shall  roll, 

To  find  that  voice  the  last  dear  word  has  told  ! 


THE  DIFFERENCE.  53 

How  often  have  I  felt  a  joyous  thrill 
Steal  over  me  at  thought  of  being  young  ! 
A  sudden  song  has  moved  upon  my  tongue, 
My  feet  have  danced  to  music  never  heard, 
My  whole  glad  being  carolled,  like  a  bird 
Whose  brief  life  has  no  grief  its  voice  to  still. 

My  foot  the  verdant  heather-moor  has  pressed 

And  left  the  bells  unshaken  in  its  wake  : 

My  boat  has  skimmed  the  tiny  mountain  lake, — 

But  touched  no  fountain  in  them  all,  in  sooth, 

That  brings  its  finder  an  eternal  youth, 

And  seals  the  long  unquiet  of  the  breast. 

Oh,  that  some  charm  the  wisest  could  unfold, 
Whatever  painful  penance  might  attend, 
That  to  the  hungry  wish  could  magic  lend 
To  keep  the  midnight  darkness  on  the  hair, 
And,  for  the  eyes,  forever  prison  there 
The  soul  that  will  decline  on  growing  old  ! 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

T   HAVE  seen  eyes  that  were  more  tender  ! 
^       I  know  not  why  I  cannot  brook 
One  gentle,  half-indifferent  look 
That  flashes  on  me,  thrilled  with  splendor. 

I  have  heard  voices  that  were  sweeter  ! 
Why  does  my  spirit  spread  its  wings 
And  fly  to  meet  her,  as  she  sings  ? 

Why  is  my  life  a  thing  completer  ? 


54  DONALD. 

I  felt  no  lack  before  I  met  her. 

But  if  some  dread  power  should  remove 
This  one  fair  woman  whom  I  love — 

Break  then,  O  Heart,  thine  earthly  fetter. 


DONALD. 

BY  a  trick  of  falling  eyelids, 
And  a  gracious  gift  of  speech, 
By  a  smile  that  trembles  faintly 
Just  within  the  dimples'  reach, 
By  a  practised  look  of  wonder 

Shining  in  her  false,  blue  eyes, 
She  has  won  my  bonny  Donald, 
And  my  life  in  ruin  lies. 

I — I  only  stood  before  him 

With  a  love  so  warm  and  true, 
That  I  never  thought  of  blushing, 

As  I  looked  him  through  and  through. 
What  the  need  of  drooping  lashes 

When  I  only  thought  of  him. — 
And  I  had  not  learned  the  cunning 

That  should  blur  her  beauty  dim. 

Donald,  Donald,  dear,  if  erring, 

Strong  of  heart,  but  weak  in  love  ! 
Sometime  will  her  smile  be  wanting, 

Just  as  stars  fall  from  above. 
May  the  great  God  pour  down  blessings 

Till  they  fill  your  wandering  heart  ! 
Yet  I  fear,  lad,  in  your  future, 

Sorrow,  too,  may  have  its  part  ! 


MY  SONG.  55 


MY  SONG. 

T   SANG  a  song. 

*     I  was  but  a  child  crouching  down  in  the  clover, 

And  looking  for  fairy-horns  hid  in  the  moss. 

A  heartful  of  joy  from  my  young  lips  ran  over, 

A  bliss  of  completeness  unshadowed  by  loss. 

I  dreamed  of  a  hundred  faint  silver  bells,  ringing 

'Mid  the  flowers  which  their  delicate  odors  were 

flinging, 

And  of  wind-shaken  reeds  that  were  tangled  together 
Along  the  soft  rims  of  a  wide  moor  of  heather. 
My  heart  sang  the  song  :  my  lips  only  expressed  it. 
My  joy  had  been  less,  if  I  must  have  suppressed  it. 
So  I  sang. 

Sing  the  song  now  ? 

But  the  clover  all  fell  by  the  hand  of  the  mower, 

And  the  elfin-bells  long  since  have  rung  their  last 

chime, 
And  the  wild-flower  that  blooms  bows  its  head  so 

much  lower 

That  it  hides  from  my  eyes  that  intangible  rhyme. 
No  more  the  reeds  tremble  that  border  the  heather, 
Nor  sway  at  the  breath  of  the  chill  autumn  weather. 
The  song  all  has  fled  that  I  sang  happy-hearted  : 
Its  charm  of  unconsciousness  all  has  departed. 
Yet  I  cannot  forget  that,  in  innocent  dreaming, 
Once  I  lived  from  my  heart,  without  caring   for 

seeming, 
And  so,  sang. 


56  77V  THE   COLOGNE   CA  THEDRAL. 


IN  THE  COLOGNE   CATHEDRAL. 

THE  air  was  filled  with  sounds  of  bells 
That  drifted  down  like  flakes  of  snow ; 
Long  rays  of  light  shook  to  and  fro, 
As  if  by  trembling  angels  blown 
Whose  pure  eyes  gazed  upon  God's  throne, 
Where  endless  glory  dwells. 

From  every  pillar's  shadowy  side 
A  saint  cast  down  his  quiet  eyes, 
A  spirit  fixed  in  marble  guise. 
A  mystery  of  holiness 
Brooded  upon  the  sacred  place, 
With  wings  extended  wide. 

As  in  some  forest's  leafy  gloom, 

Whose  arching  trees  meet  overhead, 

Shut  out  the  tender  evening  red, 

Shut  in  the  million  songs  of  birds, 

The  love  expressed,  but  not  through  words, 

Stole  through  the  vaulted  room. 

The  gray-haired  priest  has  done  his  prayer  ; 

The  swelling  echoes  die  away;  — 

Yet  something  lives  to  mark  the  day  ! 

That  solemn  grandeur,  unforgot, 

Sweeps  through  the  soul  where  peace  is  not, 

And  leaves  its  image  there. 


PRESIDENT  GARFIELD — DEAD.  57 


PRESIDENT  GARFIELD— DEAD. 

MOURN,  mourn  for  the  great  heart  stilled  ; 
Mourn  for  the  life  that  was  in  its  prime, 
For  the  narrow  grave  too  early  filled, 

Undug  by  the  careless  hand  of  time. 
Let  tears  fall  fast  on  the  quiet  bed 
Where  lies  at  rest — a  nation's  dead  ! 

Mourn  for  the  life  now  offered  up 

That  broken  laws  might  be  made  whole  ; 

Grieve  for  that  last  long  sorrow-cup 

Whose  bitter  drops  have  freed  his  soul : 

Prove  that  it  was  not  all  in  vain 

That  wasted  form  was  racked  by  pain. 

Mourn  for  the  Christless  party-hate, 
That  thrilled  to  deed  a  coward  hand  ; 

For  the  Real  small,  and  the  Ideal  great, 
That  breed  corruption  in  our  land! 

Mourn  !  we  do  not  mourn  alone, 

All  nations  share  our  anguished  moan. 

Out  from  the  highest  Paradise 

In  that  blue  heaven  above  us  spead, 

A  spirit  looks  with  watching  eyes, 
A  martyr's  crown  upon  his  head. 

Mourn  for  the  wrong  that  he  must  see 

With  that  glance  of  immortality. 


58  THE  MATTERHORN. 


THE  MATTERHORN. 

'""THOU  grand,  triangular  peak  ! 
*•     On  thy  proud  head  the  heavy  sky  is  propped, 

And,  like  a  vail,  the  floating  mist  is  dropped 
That  hangs  its  banner  from  thy  fortress  bleak. 
The  whistling  wind  creeps  round  thy  sides  in  vain, 

The  soft  snow  cannot  find  a  resting-place  ; 

Thy  face  o'erlooks  the  vast  and  sunless  space, 
Unfurrowed  by  the  fall  of  snow  and  rain. 

No  human  foot  shall  dare 

With  rash  impunity  to  scale  thy  height  ; 

The  trembling  limb  and  horror-swimming  sight 
Attend  the  passage  through  thy  rarer  air. 
The  rumbling  avalanche  pours  ruin  down, 

And  hurls  the  wanderer  to  his  lower  sphere. 

The  ringing  echoes  drop  his  last  groan  clear, 
Chasms  the  sound  in  awful  silence  drown. 

What  power  is  then  in  Him 

Who  raised  thee  from  the  level-lying  land 

With  one  uplifting  of  his  mighty  hand  ! 
Who  grouped  about  thy  distance-purpled  rim 
The  thousand  tints  that  warm  a  sunset  sky  ; 

Below  them  heaped  the  century-frozen  ice  ; 

Gave  isolation  as  thy  grandeur's  price, 
And  set  thee  guard  upon  eternity. 


HOW  THE  BROOK  CAME  DOWN.  59 


HOW  THE  BROOK  CAME  DOWN. 

\1  7ITH  icicle-fringe  from  the  frost  fairy's  hand 

'  '  Edging  the  desolate,  hard-frozen  land, 
There  rippled  a  brook  from  under  the  snow, 
Up  where  the  pink  Alpine  roses  all  blow. 

From  the  cold  speeding,  she  ran  down  a  hill  ; 
Low  on  its  base  stood  a  half-ruined  mill  ; 
Above  it,  a  cottage  was  flooded  with  song  : 
The  brook  flashed  responsive,  and  hurried  along. 

Bordered  by  heather,  and  bordered  by  broom, 
Yellow  with  threads  from  the  sun's  busy  loom  ; 
Here  with  a  flourish,  and  there  with  a  nod, 
Here  edged  with  jagged  rocks,  there  over  sod  ; 

Here  through  the  meadows,  where  sweet  violets 

grow, 

Bending  to  see  their  reflection  below  ; 
Here  with  her  silver  hair  caught  on  a  stone, 
There  for  a  wounded  wave  making  her  moan  ; 

Here  with  a  ripple,  and  there  with  a  flower 
Whirling  to  death  in  its  first  rosy  hour  ; 
Now,  when  the  Day-God's  swift  arrows  were  bright, 
Now,  through  the  silent  hours  solemn  with  night; — 

So  went  the  widening  brook,  in  her  course 
Dashing  her  waters  with  greatening  force. 


60  SINCE  I  HAVE  KNOWN  YOU. 

Far  in  her  wake  shone  the  wee,  glinted  pearls 
Lavishly  scattered  in  swift-twisted  whirls. 

Here  o'er  the  trunk  of  a  down-fallen  tree, 
Laid  in  her  path  to  the  low-growling  sea, 
Foaming  and  dashing  she  springs  on  her  way, 
Limpid  with  moonshine  and  brilliant  with  day. 

Now  to  the  unbounded  sea  she  has  pressed, 
Lies  like  a  throbbing  vein  traced  on  his  breast  ; 
And  in  mid-ocean,  high  up  on  the  mast, 
Listening,  the  sailor-boy  thinks  of  his  past  ; 

Dreams  of  his  home  where  the  brook  flows  along, 
Hears  once  again  a  long-quieted  song  ; 
Tears  to  the  past  dim,  a  moment,  his  eye, 
Then  fall  in  the  wave — but  he  cannot  tell  why  ! 


SINCE  I  HAVE  KNOWN  YOU. 

SINCE  I  have  known  you,  life  has  been 
Sweet  beyond  all  imaginings, — 
Not  wholly  free  from  care  and  pain, 
Or  the  sad  trail  of  broken  wings  ; — 
Nor  have  I,  like  a  cradled  child, 
Seen  naught  beyond  my  safe  retreat, 
Nor  can  the  voice  of  love  call  out 
The  ready  violet  at  my  feet. 
Still  Labor  claims  me  as  his  own  : 
Love  can  but  lend  to  common  things 
The  glory  of  a  heart  at  peace, — 
Sweet  beyond  all  imaginings. 


THE  ANGEL'S  MEADOW.  6 1 


THE  "ANGEL'S   MEADOW." 

T  KNOW  a  spot  where  heaven  drops  down, 
From  cloudy  hands,  rich  tints  of  brown, 
That  fall  where,  dim  before  our  eyes, 
Afar  the  ruined  castle  lies. 
Below,  like  crystal  dipped  in  fire, 
On  feet  that  speed,  but  never  tire, 
The  Neckar  runs  between  her  shores, 
Furrowed  by  trailing  tracks  of  oars. 

I  know  a  spring,  whose  coolness  drips 
Like  breath,  from  rough  red-sandstone  lips. 
There  moss  holds  out  its  wee,  green  cup, 
And  feathery  grass  springs  nodding  up. 
The  foxglove  shakes  her  purple  bells 
That  tinkle  through  the  wind-swept  dells, 
And  bees  hum  music  for  the  ear 
That  holds  small  insect-voices  dear. 

I  know  a  field  where  daisies  close 
Their  steadfast  eyes,  in  long,  white  rows. 
Along  the  edge,  high  stalks  of  grain 
Send  flute-like  notes  in  faint  refrain  ; 
And,  interwoven  here  and  there, 
Like  some  rich  pattern  wrought  with  care, 
All  wrapt  in  mystic  blossom-trance, 
Corn-flowers  and  poppies  dart  and  dance. 

Forget-me-nots,  that  blossom  low 

And  star  the  meadow  where  they  grow, 


62  THE   STORK'S  NEST. 

With  faces  hidden  from  the  light 
Come  first  before  my  mental  sight. 
It  seems  as  if  eternal  May 
Had  lent  that  field  one  perfect  day, — 
One,  only  one  !  and  formed  this  flower 
To  say,  "  Do  not  forget  this  hour  !  " 


THE  STORK'S    NEST. 

A  WHOLE  wide  villageful  of  homes 
Lies  close  within  the  hill's  brown  hand 
The  shadows  strike  the  quaint,  red  roofs, 
And  fall  upon  the  wooded  land. 
Just  where  the  last  dim  sunbeams  drop 
Upon  our  ancient  chimney-top, 
The  stork,  in  meditative  rest, 
Serene,  stands  on  her  twig-built  nest. 

And  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think  ? 

A  thought  is  an  unbidden  guest, 

That  comes  when  we  expect  him  least, 

And  draws  the  bolts  that  close  the  breast. — 

I  think  the  stork  flew  all  about 

To  seek  earth's  cosiest  corner  out ; 

Saw  how  our  cottage-fire  shone, 

And  perched  her  home  above  our  own 


THE  LITTLE   GERMAN  GIRL.  63 


THE  LITTLE   GERMAN  GIRL. 

\\  7 HAT  does  she  think  of,  as  she  goes 
*  *       Sedately  down  the  narrow  street, 
Her  either  cheek  a  dainty  rose, 

Her  baby-mouth  demure  and  sweet  ? 
Beneath  the  silken  lashes  dance, 

With  childish  hope,  the  big  blue  eyes, 
Yet  gravity  is  in  her  glance, 

And  questionings  of  shy  surprise. 

I  'd  like  her  painted,  as  she  stands 

A  moment  still,  in  mended  gown, 
The  knitting  growing  in  her  hands 

That  are  so  little  and  so  brown. 
I  'd  like  to  keep  that  honest  face 

Forever  shut  within  my  power, 
To  cheer  me  with  its  modest  grace, 

And  wile  away  some  listless  hour. 

What  does  she  think  of  ?     In  her  dreams 

Is  she  a  queen  in  bright  array ! 
Methinks  a  look  of  splendor  seems 

To  dawn  into  the  sinking  day  ! — 
Or  does  she  fancy  that  a  knight 

Comes  leaping  from  his  fiery  steed, 
To  strike  for  her  with  loving  might, 

And  win  her  through  his  worthy  deed  ! 

Believe  me,  little  German  girl, 
There 's  many  a  lady  fair  to  view, 

With  pale,  proud  face,  and  drooping  curl, 
Would  give  her  all  to  be  like  you. 


64  THE  FISHER-BOY. 

There  's  not  a  queen  upon  her  throne, 
Whose  power  extends  to  life  and  death, 

Can  count  that  happiness  her  own 
Which  you  inhale  with  every  breath. 

So  count  your  stitches,  little  friend, 

And  make  your  knitting-work  complete. 
May  Holy  Care  your  path  attend, 

Even  if  it  be  a  village  street  ! 
Though  none  would  paint  you,  as  you  stood 

Here  in  my  sight,  a  moment's  time, 
Yet  I  have  done  the  best  I  could, 

And  painted  you  all  out — in  rhyme. 


THE  FISHER-BOY. 

A  CALM  sea  in  the  morning  red, 
A  fisher-boy  upon  the  shore  ; 
A  white  sail  for  the  soft  breeze  spread, 
A  shout  that  joined  the  billows'  roar, 
A  "  Good-by,  mother  !"  gayly  said. 

And  the  mother  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand, 
And  looked  at  the  boat  as  it  danced  from  land. 

A  wild  sea  in  the  evening  red, 

A  fisher-boy  far  off  from  shore, 
A  tangled  sail  to  rough  winds  spread, 

A  deep  voice  in  the  breaker's  roar  : 
A  "  Good-by,  mother,"  faintly  said. 

And  the  mother  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand, 
And  prayed  for  the  boat  that  should  never  land. 


GOOD-BY,   HEIDELBERG.  65 


GOOD-BY,  HEIDELBERG. 

HOW  strange  it  is  that  love  will  cling, 
Like  ivy,  to  a  ruined  thing, 
And  make  more  charming  in  its  fall 
This  sunken  arch  of  crumbling  wall, 
This  broken  pillar's  curving  grace, 
Than  when  they  first  grew  into  place  ! 
How  strange  it  is  that  you  and  I, 
Born  far  beneath  a  western  sky, 
Have  wandered,  led  by  fortune,  here, 
And  count  this  spot  so  dear,  so  dear ! 

And  yet,  in  truth,  both  you  and  I 
Are  glad  to  breathe  our  last  "  Good-by." 
We  have  been  happy  here  to  roam, 
But  far  across  the  sea  is  Home. 
We,  tearless,  meet  the  warm  hand-clasp 
Of  friends  who  weep  to  give  the  grasp. 
How  strange  it  is,  that,  more  than  all 
Our  human  fellowship,  this  wall, 
This  fallen  landmark  of  the  past, 
Wrings  sorrow  from  our  hearts  at  last  ! 

Not  those  skilled  hands  that  once  long  wrought, 

Have  made  it  sacred  to  our  thought ; 

Not  those  brave  knights  and  ladies  fair 

Who  lived,  and  loved,  and  perished  there. 

For  us  it  is  a  casket,  dim, 

But  filled  with  memories  to  the  brim. 


66  SHE   SINGS. 

Our  dreams  have  pierced  this  shattered  wall 
And  here  are  fixed  beyond  recall. 
We  are  not  loath  to  say  "  Good-by," 
Yet  we  leave  something,  you  and  I. 


SHE   SINGS. 

SHE  sings  !     I  do  not  know  the  words 
That  shake  the  summer  air  : 
And  yet  that  joyous  flood  of  notes 
Seems  present  everywhere. 

What  are  the  words  ?     She  carols  on 

As  free  as  bird  in  June  : 
Her  life  is  boundless  as  the  air, 

Her  very  breath  a  tune. 

I  know  not  if  she  ever  lived 

Until  I  strolled  along, 
Nor  if  her  being  dies  away 

With  that  exultant  song, — 

But  this  I  know  !     The  summer  day 

Had  lost  one  golden  gleam, 
If  that  rich  voice  had  failed  to  lend 

Its  meaning  to  the  dream. 


THE  HOPES  OF  LONG  AGO. 


THE  HOPES  OF  LONG  AGO. 

IT  is  so  long,  so  long  ago, 
That  I  almost  forget  how  long, 

And  then  it  seemeth  very  near  ! 
The  sun  scarce  shone,  he  was  so  low, 
The  thin  air  trembled  with  a  song 

That  from  the  heart  struck  on  the  ear. 

Oh,  golden  sunset  that  has  fled  ! 
Oh,  quiet  lake,  that,  at  our  feet, 

Lay  smooth  and  waveless  as  the  sky  ! 
What  cry  can  bring  again  the  dead, 

The  once  lived  hours  that  were  so  sweet, 
The  moments  that  are  gone  for  aye  ! 

And  we  were  sitting  on  the  shore, 

And  words  were  said — I  know  not  what. 

But,  over  land  and  over  sea, 
Although  that  time  can  come  no  more, 
Although  its  fancied  joys  are  not, 

Those  half-said  thoughts  have  followed  me. 

How  sad  it  is,  at  forty  years, 

When  wrinkles  lie  upon  the  face, 

And  gray  hairs  peep  amid  the  brown, 
To  weep  again  the  bitter  tears 

That  stole  our  youth's  first  subtle  grace, 
When  our  first  god  went  crashing  down  ! 

We  do  not  mourn  the  offered  heart, 
We  do  not  grieve  for  vanished  love  ! 
But  sometimes,  in  the  hours  of  rest, 


68  A    YEAR'S  HISTORY. 

We  mourn  that  we  have  learned  the  art 
To  hide  the  thoughts  that  in  us  move, 
Within  the  recess  of  the  breast. 

But,  as  the  autumn  sometimes  brings 
A  few  warm  days  amid  her  frost, 

When  earth  spreads  out  her  fairest  page, 
When  every  little  songster  sings, 
And  Nature  holds  her  Pentecost — 
So  with  the  autumn  of  our  age. 

And  as  we  feel  the  pleasant  glow, 
A  lost  sense  comes  to  us  again, 

Again  life  seems  a  noble  thing. 
Oh,  golden  hopes  of  Long  Ago, 
Freed  from  accompanying  pain, 
Ourselves  unto  ourselves  ye  bring. 


A  YEAR'S  HISTORY. 

OPRINGTIME  :  and  the  sleepy  plant 
^  Throws  aside  its  warm  snow-cover, 
Tosses  up  its  small  green  head, 

That  the  April  sky  bends  over  ; 
Stretches  all  its  finger-leaves 
Out  for  presents  it  receives — 
Bits  of  sunshine,  drops  of  rain 
Pattering  their  sweet  refrain. 

Summer  :  and  the  plant  grows  tall, 
Like  a  slender-waisted  maiden, 


LEAVING  THE  BODY.  69 

And  the  bud  upon  its  breast 

Swells  and  deepens,  color-laden. 
Painted  wings  of  butterflies 
All  about  it-  fall  and  rise, 
Bees  hum  for  it,  breezes  blow — 
All  to  make  its  blossoms  grow. 

Autumn  :  and  the  flower  lies  dead, 
Swaying  on  the  stalk  that  bore  it. 

Butterflies  go  swinging  by, 
Bees  no  longer  murmur  o'er  it. 

But  the  secrets  of  past  days — 

Falling  dew,  and  golden  rays — 

Changed  to  fragrance,  twinge  and  dart 

From  its  never-dying  heart. 

Winter  :  and  the  leaves  are  brown, 

And  the  bitter  wind  comes  sweeping, — 

"  It  is  time  you  went  to  bed, 

Since  the  other  plants  are  sleeping  !  " 

So  he  tucks  it  snugly  in 

With  snow-blankets  to  the  chin  : 

And  it  hears  a  whispering, — 

"  Sleep  !  there  comes  another  spring  !  " 


LEAVING  THE  BODY. 

RISE,  Spirit,  rise, 
Up  to  thy  late-left  realms  of  day  ! 
Take  from  the  fringed  nooks  of  the  eyes 
The  expression  I  have  learned  to  prize. 


70  THE  WOOD-WIFE. 

Draw  from  the  azure  veins 
Life,  with  its  pangs  and  pains, 
And  speed  away. 

Make  whiter  still 

The  awful  whiteness  of  that  brow  : 
Bend,  and  the  quiet  chamber  fill 
With  that  calm  rest  that  knows  no  will 
And  gather  to  a  smile 
The  breath  he  breathed  erewhile, — 
And  hasten  now. 

Yet  have  no  fear  ! 

There  is  no  might  that  is  so  strong 
Can  steal  from  me  thee  who  art  dear. 
Incline  upon  me.     Canst  thou  hear 
Clearly  the  words  I  say  ? 
I  love  thee,  not  thy  clay, — 
And  love  is  long  ! 


THE  WOOD-WIFE. 

'""FHE  house  was  little,  and  brown,  and  low  ; 
•*•       The  moss  hung  down  from  the  ragged  eaves, 
And,  over  the  sunken  roof,  a  row 

Of  shivering  poplars  shook  their  leaves. 
The  sun  shone  in  on  the  old  stone  floor, 

Where  the  ancient  Roman  altar  stood, 
And  the  wood-wife  sat  at  the  open  door 

And  gazed  down  the  long  trail  through  the  wood. 


THE  WOOD-WIFE.  J\ 

The  priest  stood  near  with  his  open  book, 

And  traced  on  the  page  the  narrow  word, 
But  the  wood-wife  turned  with  an  absent  look, 

And  an  ear  that  was  tuned  unto  things  unheard. 
She  thought  of  the  days  that  were  long  gone  by, 

When  the  axe-man  led  her,  with  honest  pride, 
Through  the  long  trail,  under  the  shining  sky, 

And  kissed  at  the  threshold  his  rosy  bride. 

She  thought  of  the  children, — low  they  lie  ! — 

Whose  heads  had  rested  upon  her  breast  : 
Of  sweet  child-songs  and  the  baby-cry 

That  stilled  as  she  lulled  them  into  rest. 
They  had  chosen  homes  in  the  busy  town, 

They  had  lived,  and  married, — but  all  were  dead. 
Yet  the  mother's  heart  still  folded  down, 

In  its  deepest  nook,  each  little  head. 

Her  life  passed,  touching  her  like  a  dream 

That  fades  and  deepens  within  the  brain  ; 
Long  walks  that  bordered  the  forest  stream, 

Long  nights  shut  in  by  the  twists  of  rain. 
The  first  pale  violets  of  the  spring 

That  raised  their  eyes  when  they  felt  her  near  ; 
The  thick,  short  thoughts  that  the  years  may  bring 

Came,  fanned  by  sorrow,  and  love,  and  fear. 

"  My  gods  are  the  sun  and  the  grand  old  oak  ; 

And  what  are  your  gods  to  me  ?  "  she  said. 
Her  voice  to  quavering  whispers  broke  ; 

Her  face  grew  set,  like  a  face  just  dead. 
But  the  cold  priest  rustled  the  printed  page, 

And  read  the  prayers  in  a  hollow  tone, 


72       A   ROSE-BUD. — A   HOPE  FOR  LEIGH. 

Unheeding  the  tremulous  form  of  age 

That  shook,  and  dropped  on  the  threshold  stone. 

She  thought :     "  I  will  die  in  my  own,  old  faith, 

The  only  faith  that  my  loved  ones  knew  !  " 
Read  on,  stern  priest  !    With  that  struggling  breath 

A  soul  that  is  worn  with  life  breaks  through. 
Read  on  !     For  the  wood-wife  hears  no  more. 

This  moment,  into  the  thin,  clear  air, 
A  spirit  flew  from  the  old  stone  floor, 

And  stretched  its  wings  for  its  journey — where  ? 


A  ROSE-BUD. 

I  BROUGHT  her  a  rose-bud  yesterday. 
She  took  it,  and  held  it  to  the  light, 
And  smiled  with  a  pathos  sweet  and  slight ; 
And,  smiling,  she  laid  the  bud  away. 

To-day,  on  the  pillow's  dented  snows 
She  lies,  with  the  smile  still  on  her  lips, 
And  cold  to  the  folded  finger-tips. 

To-day,  and  the  bud  has  bloomed — a  rose. 


A  HOPE  FOR  LEIGH. 

\WHAT  shall  I  hope  for  the  little  child 

*  *       Whose  days  are  as  yet  so  few  ? 
Shall  I  wish  for  paths  that  are  blossom-sweet, 
And  skies  that  are  ever  blue  ? 


THE  ROSE.  73 

But  winter  comes,  with  its  piercing  cold, 

And  finds  its  way  to  the  heart  ; 
While  snows  fall  fast  from  the  darkened  sky, 

And  the  old  friends  stand  apart. 

But  what  shall  I  ask  ?     Wealth  ?    Honor  ?     Fame  ? 

But  riches  bring  no  content, 
And  fame  is  a  mocking  wreath,  that  crowns 

The  being  whose  joys  are  spent ; 
And  honor  fades  as  a  rose,  whose  breath 

Is  sweet,  while  the  buds  unfold. 
Oh  !   what  is  the  wish  for  the  little  child 

Whose  story  is  all  untold  ? 

Smile  from  your  cradle,  little  child, 

Whose  life  amid  smiles  began  ; 
My  hope  for  you  is  a  loving  heart 

That  believes  in  God  and  in  man. 
The  world  is  kind  to  the  innocent, 

And  it  will  repay  your  trust ; 
While  love  is  a  plant  that  cannot  die, 

But  flowers  when  all  is  dust. 


THE  ROSE. 

THE  painter  of  the  evening  sky 
Drew  long,  bright  lines  across  the  west ; 
He  veiled  the  sun's  great,  gleaming  eye 

With  cloudy  mists  that  half  expressed 
And  half  concealed  what  they  would  hide  ; 
As,  in  its  distant  niche,  aside 


74  THE  ROSE. 

From  eyes  that  look  and  then  forget, 
Some  dim  saint  longs  for  heaven  yet. 

Broad  bands  of  purple  and  of  dun, 

Irregularly  grouped  with  skill, 
Now  glimmered  round  the  dying  sun 

And  shadowed  forth  the  artist's  will. 
With  faint,  soft  shades  of  beauteous  pink, 
Joined  in  a  long  chain,  link  on  link, 
He  bound  the  darkening  heavens  round — 
And  then — his  brush  slipped  to  the  ground. 

Oh,  strange  mischance  to  spirit's  power  ! 

Oh,  blessed  miracle  that  sprang 
To  being  in  that  holy  hour  ! 

Oh,  low,  sweet,  vesper  chimes  that  rang  ! 
The  dim  sky  lost  one  tender  shade, 
Although  in  loveliness  arrayed  : 
But  where  the  artist's  pencil  fell 
A  rose  nods  blushing  to  the  dell. 

Day  after  day,  all  summer  through, 

Though  clouds  may  shroud,  or  rains  may  fall, 
There  rises  to  enraptured  view 

The  sweet  wild-rose  that  blooms  for  all. 
The  princess  pins  it  in  her  lace, 
The  beggar  holds  it  to  her  face  ; 
And  the  same  Hand  its  care  bestows 
On  evening  sky,  and  blossoming  rose. 


OPEN  THE  WINDOW.  75 


OPEN   THE  WINDOW. 

OPEN  the  window  wide,   Love,  and  let  me  feel 
the  air, 

Warm  with  the  slender  beams  that  quiver  every 
where. 

Do  you  remember  the  old  oak  tree 

That  stood  with  head  far  in  the  sky  ? 
It  seemed  to  us  steeped  in  melody 

So  dense  that  it  almost  met  the  eye. 
The  lightning  clove  its  sturdy  breast : 

In  tortured  shreds  the  branches  hang  ! 
But  a  bird  flew  from  her  fire-wrecked  nest, 

And,  poised  above  for  an  instant — sang ! 

My  life  is  riven  so,  yet  my  heart  is  sweet  with  song: 
I  heard  them  say  "  No  Hope !  "  and  I  shall  not 
linger  long. 

The  dearest  thing  I  take  from  earth 

Is  the  eager,  sweet  betrothal  kiss, 
That  taught  me  all  your  love's  true  worth 

And  swept  me  with  pulsating  bliss. 
No  years  could  wear  it  irom  my  mouth  ; 

It  goes  through  death's  dark  suffering 
As  breezes  blow  from  the  fragrant  south, 

And  burst  the  chill  air  with  their  wing. 

There  is  no  power  on  earth,  and  none  in  the  world 

to  be, 
That  shall  sever  our  souls — even  by  taking  me. 


76  A    SONG  FOR  MARGARET. 

What  tender  word  can  I  breathe  to-night 

To  last  through  the  coming  parted  years  ! 
How  can  I  seal  your  clouded  sight 

So  that  it  may  not  dim  with  tears  ! 
Lay  down  your  head  a  moment  here  : 

Look  at  me  with  your  loving  eyes. 
I  want  to  feel  your  presence  near 

When  I  begin  to  immortalize  ! 


A  SONG  FOR    MARGARET. 

A  SONG  for  little  Margaret  ! 
A  happy  song  for  the  shining  eyes 
In  which  no  brooding  shadow  lies  ! 
O  singing  birds,  that  cleave  the  sky 
And  dip  in  music  as  ye  fly, 
Think  of  her  face,  a  mirrored  soul  ; 
Her  soft,  loose  hair  that  frames  the  whole  ; 
Think  of  her  eyes  so  innocent, 
Two  crystal  spheres  from  heaven  lent  ; 
The  baby-voice,  whose  daily  prayer 
Pierces  the  vast  unknown  of  air  ; 
Her  dimpled  hands,  O  mark  them  well  ! 
And  when  your  wordless  raptures  swell, 
Think  of  the  rock  upon  whose  breast 
Is  set  your  warm,  deep,  laden  nest ; 
Think  of  the  tender  twitterings, 
The  hush  of  night,  the  sound  of  wings, 
The  crimson  flush  of  evening  skies, 
The  warmth  that  in  the  desert  lies  ; 
Think  of  the  joy  of  that  swift  motion 


IT  IS  THE  MOON. 

With  which  ye  cross  the  cloudy  ocean  ! 

All  that  is  loveliest  and  best, 

All  that  with  pleasure  fills  your  breast, 

Into  one  mad  joy  garner  it, 

And  drop  a  song  for  Margaret ! 


IT  IS  THE  MOON. 

TT  is  the  moon,  the  silver  moon, 

*•     Sada,  dear  Sada  ! 

The  friends  who  are  so  far  away, 

Whose  hands  we  cannot  press  to-day, 

For  them  it  is  but  noon. 

For  them  the  moon,  a  small  white  cloud, 

Lies  empty,  like  an  unused  shroud, 

All  waiting  for  the  night 

To  fill  its  folds  with  light. 

It  is  the  moon,  the  shining  moon, 
Sada,  dear  Sada  ! 

One  long  beam  stretches  to  the  west, 
Straight  to  a  mother's  longing  breast, 
Who  hopes  to  meet  us  soon  : 
Another  gush  of  light,  in  showers 
Springs  out  from  heaven's  heart  to  ours. 
And  our  bright  bond  of  love, — 
See  ! — There  it  gleams  above  ! 


78  HE  LOVES  ME, 


HE  LOVES   ME. 

HE  loves  me  !     He  loves  me  ! 
It  has  been  such  a  weary  time  ! 
I  never  thought  my  life's  hard  prose 

Could  alter  so  to  sudden  rhyme. 
I  almost  fear  to  be  so  glad  ; 
Yet  what  can  ever  make  me  sad, 
Since  he  loves  me  ? 

He  loves  me  !  he  loves  me  ! 

His  place  is  far  above  my  own, 
And  yet  he  stoops,  from  all  the  world 

To  single  to  him  me  alone. 
The  day  from  all  days  stands  apart : 
The  thought  is  burned  into  my  heart 
That  he  loves  me  ! 

He  loves  me  !  he  loves  me  ! 

There  's  something  terrible  in  joy, 
When  some  slight  change  may  make  it  less, 

Or  some  quick  sorrow  quite  destroy. 
If  heaven's  grand  anthem,  ringing  clear, 
Should  need  his  voice,  who  is  so  dear 
And  who  loves  me  ! 

He  loves  me  !  he  loves  me  ! 

I  must  grow  better  every  day, 
Must  bend  my  soul  to  higher  things, 

Lest  I  should  wear  his  love  away. 
Come,  sorrows  of  a  woman's  life  ! 
Come,  softening  pain  !  ennobling  strife  ! 

For  he  loves  me  ! 


0  STAR,  SHINE   ON. —  WHEN  IT  FADES.  79 


O   STAR,  SHINE   ON  ! 

OSTAR,  shine  on  ! 
The  moon  is  rising  in  the  sky, 
And,  bending  low,  the  archer  nigh 
Tips  his  bright  arrow  with  a  sigh, 
That,  like  a  wail,  goes  sobbing  by. 

O  star,  shine  on  ! 

Just  as  a  silvering  water-fall 

Splashed  along  its  rocky  wall, 

So  let  thy  sundrops,  keen  and  small, 

Flow  through  the  night's  great  quiet  hall. 

O  star,  shine  on  ! 

Thou  art  no  mighty  globe  for  me : 

Thou  art  a  spirit,  grand  and  free, 

Whose  glowing  wings  have  brushed  the  sea 

That  circles  round  eternity. 


WHEN  IT  FADES. 

HE  stooped  to  a  wayside  bush 
And  culled  its  fairest  flower  ; 
Fastened  it  on  his  breast, 

And  wore  it  there — an  hour. 
And  then  the  rose  grew  pale, 
And  he  threw  it  into  the  dust. 


8O  MIZPAH. 

Roses  are  plenty,  you  know, 

And  if  they  must  fade,  they  must. 

No  thought  of  the  long,  still  hours 

The  rose  was  growing  fair  ! 
No  sigh  for  the  scented  tax 

It  paid  to  the  tyrant  Air  ! 
Why  should  he  trouble  so  ? 

It  had  been  sweet  in  its  day, 
But  when  it  withered  and  died,     . 

He  could  only  throw  it  away. 

A  hundred  roses  may  smile, 

Nodding  upon  his  breast ; 
But  the  one  he  flung  away 

Has  lost  its  fairest  and  best. 
With  gathering  fled  its  bloom  : 

Its  petals  are  grimed  and  torn. 
And  its  long  night  of  despair 

Never  shall  roll  to  morn. 


MIZPAH. 

OH  tender  meaning,  flashing  through 
The  riven  bars  that  guard  our  speech, 
Like  lily-bells  swung  low  with  dew, 

The  heart  is  heavy  that  you  reach  ! 
We  part !    Why  should  I  add  a  word 

That  can  but  hint  at  our  regret  ? 
Each  happy  hope  that  in  us  stirred, 
As  star  that  dips  in  cloud,  has  set. 


THEN  AND  NOW.  8 1 

The  weary  years  will  wear  away 

With  blinding  snow,  with  gentle  rain, 
Yet  cannot  bring  us  back  To-day, 

Nor  make  us  what  we  were,  again. 
Our  thoughts  will  compass  half  a  world 

And  leave  behind  the  sluggard  sight, 
While,  with  earth's  circling  surface  whirled, 

One  dwells  in  darkness,  one  in  light. 

Yet,  Mizpah  !     Here  we  raise  a  heap 

That  witnesses  the  love  we  bear. 
We  know  that  One  a  watch  will  keep, 

And,  for  the  other,  each  will  spare. 
The  joys  that  future  days  will  bring 

Will  make  our  present  sorrow  seem 
Only  a  trembling  minor  string 

Across  the  music  of  a  dream. 


THEN  AND  NOW. 

WHEN  we  parted,  what  was  life  ? 
'T  was  a  sweet,  a  sleepless  dream 
Two  bright  paths  along  a  stream, 
That  should  lead  to  meadows,  rife 
With  the  golden-headed  grain, — 
Happy  mowers — loaded  wain — 
Where  we  two,  all  partings  past, 
Should  united  reap,  at  last. 

Now  we  meet, — and  life  is  what  ? 
'T  is  a  dream, — a  broken  glass 


82  HIS  MONUMENT. 

Where  the  gloomy  shadows  pass 
Of  that  glory  which  is  not. 
In  the  rain  and  in  the  wold, 
Fearing  for  the  winter's  cold, 
Empty-handed  we  have  met 
Where  our  early  hopes  were  set. 


HIS  MONUMENT. 

WHERE  shall  we  build  his  monument 
Whose  life  in  our  behalf  was  spent  ? 

There  is  an  island  wondrous  fair 

Hid  in  the  sea's  deep  breast  ; 
The  rarest  flowers  shed  fragrance  there — 

Oh,  shall  he  there  find  rest  ? 
How  sweet  the  wild-bird's  untaught  song 
Floats  those  free-curving  slopes  along  ! 
A  silver  splash,  with  scarlet  tip, 
Darts  where  the  crystal  waters  dip. 
Say,  shall  we  rear  with  careful  hand 
A  costly  pile  in  that  far  land  ? 

No,  for  no  tender  eyes  would  weep, 
In  that  bright  land,  his  quiet  sleep. 

There  is  a  little  inner  world 

Locked  in  each  human  heart, 
And  there,  in  miniature,  lies  furled 

Life's  glowing  counterpart. 
How  pure  within  that  sacred  shrine 
Flames  the  soft  light  of  life  divine  ! 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  THE  ALPS.  83 

The  hopes  that  thrill  the  eager  soul, 
Like  waves,  in  quick  succession  roll. 
From  all  love's  noblest  offerings  blent, 
Here  we  will  frame  his  monument ; 
For,  in  the  sad  heart,  history 
Writes  records  that  can  never  die. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  ALPS. 

T  T  E  climbs  the  cliff  with  steady  nerve, 
*•  *      His  step  is  sure  and  slow  ; 
Below  him  yawns  the  precipice, 

Above  gleam  peaks  of  snow. 
Upon  the  jutting  granite  crag 

Are  fixed  his  eager  eyes, 
Where,  just  beyond  his  straining  grasp, 

Fair  blooms  the  edelweiss. 

One  last,  hard  step,  and  it  is  won  ! 

It  rests  within  his  hand. 
Its  roots  still  quiver  with  the  shock 

That  rent  them  from  the  sand. 
Now  what  remains  but  to  return 

The  weary  way  he  came  ? 
Why  gaze  his  eyes  so  wildly  round  ? 

What  sets  his  cheeks  aflame  ? 

Around  his  neck  an  unseen  arm 

Has  laid  its  circling  snow  : 
A  hand  he  cannot  choose  but  feel 

Points  to  the  depths  below. 


84  THE  EDELWEISS. 

A  floating  robe  of  pearly  mist 
Gleams  where  his  hold  is  strong  ; 

A  silver  voice,  like  falling  rain, 
Murmurs  a  pleading  song  : 

"  See  where  the  sunbeams  dart  and  play, 

Down  in  yon  chasm-bed  ! 
There  lies  a  rest  from  every  care, 

A  respite — for  the  dead  ! 
Thence  thy  freed  soul  shall  scale  the  sky 

Ten  thousand  leagues  above, 
And  Eden's  white,  perpetual  flower 

Shall  bloom  for  thee  in  love  !  " 

His  eyes  grow  dim,  his  hands  grow  weak. 

The  dews  bedamp  his  face. 
He  looks  up  at  the  distant  sky, 

And  prays, — a  moment's  space. 
His  hands  grow  weak,  he  cannot  stay  ; 

He  sinks,  no  more  to  rise  ; 
But  his  closed  hand  yet  holds  in  death 

That  bunch  of  edelweiss. 


THE  EDELWEISS. 

LET  others  praise  the  crimson  rose, 
Or  chant  the  tulip's  song, 
Or  boast  the  snowy,  slender  cup 
The  lily  bears  along  : 
Let  others  tell  of  tender  thoughts 

Sprung  in  the  violet's  eyes  ; 
While  life  shall  last,  while  heart  shall  beat, 
Sing  I  the  edelweiss. 


THE  DROP  IN  THE   CLOUD.  8"5 

The  edelweiss  dwells  on  the  height 

Where  sweeps  the  piercing  air  ; 
The  cruel  rocks  that  rise  around 

Clutch  at  her  silver  hair. 
Her  foot  sinks  deep  in  snow  and  ice 

To  strike  the  warmer  sand  ; 
Her  slender  stalk  bends  to  and  fro, 

By  Alpine  breezes  fanned. 

All  day  the  rocking  icicles 

And  wind-blown  waves  of  snow 
Tell  her  their  secrets  as  they  pass, 

In  voices  deep  and  low. 
All  night  she  lays  her  gleaming  head 

Upon  the  mountain's  breast, 
And  those  strange  sounds  that  thrill  the  earth 

Do  not  disturb  her  rest. 

The  edelweiss  is  small  and  pale  ; 

No  glow  is  on  her  cheek. 
She  bears  a  thought  within  her  breast 

Which  yet  she  does  not  speak. 
Pure,  lonely,  born  to  wintry  life, 

Heir  to  perpetual  ice  ! 
He  must  ascend  by  constant  pains 

Who  wins  the  edelweiss. 


THE  DROP  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

A    WATER-DROP  and  a  star  together 
**     Sat  in  a  crimson  cloud, 
When,  in  the  frosty  winter  weather, 
The  merry  bells  rang  loud. 


86  LOVE  RESURRECTED. 

A  tiny  snow-flake  floated,  drifted, 

Quivering  to  the  ground. 
On  crystal-woven  wings  uplifted 

It  fluttered  round  and  round. 

And  when  the  spring's  first  sunrise,  blushing, 

Reddened  the  sky  afar, 
A  snow-drop,  through  the  hard  earth  pushing, 

Smiled  at  the  distant  star. 


LOVE  RESURRECTED. 

I  BURIED  my  love  deep,  deep, 
In  the  dimple  of  Nan's  cheek. 
"  Love,"  said  I,  "  long  be  thy  sleep  ! 
Brief,  but  sweet,  thy  life  has  been, 
Dear  the  grave  I  lay  thee  in. 

All  my  grief  I  dare  not  speak, — 
But  in  death  the  heart  reposes  : 
Rest,  beneath  those  faint  blush-roses." 

I  spoke,  and  a  whisper  came, 

Both  a  whisper  and  a  thrill : — 
"  Life  to  thee  is  not  the  same, 
Will  not  be  the  same  again." 
Then  Nan  smiled,  to  ease  my  pain. 
Lo  !  against  my  hope  and  will, — 
Deep  the  dimple  I  selected, — 
But — my  love  was  resurrected. 


THE  TALE   OF  THE  BOAT.  8/ 


TWILIGHT  SONG. 

'"THERE  is  a  yellow  butterfly 
*       Swaying  upon  this  little  flower  ; 

The  cool  breeze  swings  him  to  and  fro, 
Yet  never  swings  too  low,  too  high. 
It  is  the  happy  silence-hour, 

And,  where  the  short-stemmed  grasses  grow, 
The  firefly  lights  her  little  lamp 
To  guide  her  children  through  the  damp. 

A  rain  of  silver,  shimmering  light 
Falls  from  the  moon's  inverted  horn  ; 

A  wee  star  lends  a  twinkling  ray 
To  tremble  in  the  gathering  night, 

And  wait  through  darkness  for  the  morn. 

For  there  shall  come  another  day 
That  will  unfurl  those  folded  wings, 
And  empty  this  sweet  flower  that  swings. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  BOAT. 

'"THE  boat,  the  boat,  the  little  boat ! 
*       It  danced  away  one  morning, 
Its  sails  spread  like  a  dove's  pure  wings, 

The  flags  its  mast  adorning. 
And  the  boy  who  offered  its  precious  freight 

Looked  till  his  eyes  could  see  no  more, 
And  then  remained  to  watch  and  wait 

Till  the  boat  came  back  to  the  quiet  shore 


88  THE   SENTINEL. 

But  a  storm  came,  and  the  cloud  bent  down 

Its  brow  all  black  with  thunder, 
And  the  sea  grew  livid  with  despair, 

And  dashed  its  crests  asunder. 
For  a  wind  lashed,  like  a  mighty  whip, 

The  waves  that  late  had  gleamed  so  white, 
And  down  went  many  a  valiant  ship 

And  bore  its  crew  from  mortal  sight. 

And  the  little  boat  ? — Gray  age  has  laid 

On  the  boy  his  frosty  fingers, 
And  still,  where  the  boat  rocked  gayly  out, 

An  old  man  dreams  and  lingers  ; 
And  what  is  so  hard  as  to  watch  and  wait, 

To  wait  and  watch,  as  the  slow  years  go, 
And  ask  what  came  of  youth's  sacred  freight, 

And  hope,  and  wonder, — but  never  know  ! 


THE  SENTINEL. 

\  I  7 HERE  Russia  swells,  with  freezing  breath, 
^  '       The  streams  that  vein  her  snowy  breast, 
And  dooms  each  bud  to  early  death 

That  lifts  its  head  from  sluggish  rest ; 
Where  every  bush  is  fringed  with  frost, 

And  long,  white  fingers  streak  the  ground, 
The  sentinel  stands  at  his  post, 

And  views  the  dreary  plain  around. 

A  storm  sweeps  down  upon  the  place  : 
The  dark  clouds  burst  in  cracks  of  gold, 

And  pour  upon  his  upturned  face 
Soft  drops  of  winter  from  each  fold. 


ELIZABETH.  89 

Thick,  thick,  and  white,  his  winding-sheet 

Is  lowered  to  him  from  the  sky  ; 
The  air  in  kisses  keen  and  sweet 

Breathes  on  his  mouth,  his  cheek,  his  eye. 

The  night  comes  on,  and,  bathed  in  light, 

The  moon  looks  on  her  midnight  lands  ; 
The  long,  loose  curtains  of  the  night 

The  winds  draw  back,  with  shifting  hands. 
With  arms  crossed  tightly  on  his  breast, 

With  snowy  hollows  in  his  face, 
Until  God  sends  his  day  of  rest 

The  sentinel  stands  in  his  place. 


ELIZABETH. 

TTUSH  !  here  is  a  nook  in  the  dim  old  aisle 

•*•  *•     Where  never  the  sun  unveils  his  face, 
But  leaves  just  the  lingering,  tender  trace, 

Half-look,  half-dream,  of  a  daily  smile. 

A  tomb  on  the  marble  floor  stands  here. 
Upon  it  a  girl  that  is  carved  at  rest, 
With  slight  arms  folded  across  her  breast, 

Has  slept  in  silence  this  many  a  year. 

Within  lies  the  body,  wrapt  in  death. 

They  could  not  hold,  though  they  loved,  their  own, 
So  they  made  her  semblance  of  lasting  stone, 
And  cut  at  the  feet,  "  Elizabeth." 
The  name  was  sent,  like  a  sharp,  quick  cry, 

Through  the   swinging  doors,    as   they   opened 
then, 


90  GRIEF— A   FRIEND. 

To  call  her  back  to  the  life  of  men — 
In  vain  !     In  vain  ! — from  the  closing  sky. 

If  good,  if  ill,  were  her  earthly  days 

What  voice  shall  tell  through  a  thousand  years  ! 

Long  since  were  dried  her  impassioned  tears, 
Long  since  grew  silent  her  hymn  of  praise. 
The  very  lily  her  young  hand  pressed, 

So  sweet  and  white  when  they  laid  her  down, 

Each  moment  darkened  to  deeper  brown, 
And  fell  to  dust  on  her  quiet  breast. 

A  cherub,  high  on  the  pillared  wall, 

Bends  down  his  head  'twixt  his  two  crossed  wings, 
And  lights  her  gloom  with  the  smile  he  brings 

While  centuries  vanish.     And  this  is  all. 

Elizabeth  !     For  a  little  while 

Come  back,  and  whisper  but  once,  apart, — 
What  peace  lies  sealed  in  the  pulseless  heart 

Forever  stilled  in  an  angel's  smile  ? 


GRIEF— A  FRIEND. 

I  GIVE  thee  my  hand,  O  Grief  ! 
I  will  not  shrink,  nor  dread 
So  close  at  thy  side  to  tread  ; 
I  will  not  loosen  my  hold 
From  thine,  that  is  firm  and  cold  ; 
I  will  not  pine  in  regret 
For  joys  that  I  might  have  yet  ; 
I  will  not  ask  for  release  ; 


YOUR  KINGDOM.  9! 

We  will  walk  together  in  peace 
The  way,  be  it  long  or  brief, 
If  only  thy  grasp  secure 
That  I  keep  my  own  hand  pure. 

0  Grief,  I  give  thee  my  heart ; 
My  thoughts,  that  are  all  my  own, 
Yet  reach  to  God's  distant  throne, 

1  give  thee  the  kiss  I  wear 

On  my  lips,  to  charm  despair  ; — 
I  leaned  on  a  coffin-lid 
And  wrested  it  from  my  Dead  ! — 
My  life,  my  love,  and  my  all, 
I  bring  at  thy  sacred  call, 
For  thou  a  true  friend  art. 
Whose  hand  thou  once  dost  take 
Thou  never  dost  forsake. 


YOUR  KINGDOM. 

THERE  is  a  corner  in  my  heart, 
A  little  corner  kept  apart, 
Where  what  is  pure,  and  good,  and  high, 
Is  shut  away  from  careless  eye. 
The  curious  stranger  well  may  see 
The  common  thoughts  that  surge  through  me, 
But  here  I  come  to  be  alone, 
To  feel  myself,  and  be  my  own. 

This  small  soul-chamber  is  the  place, 
Beloved,  where  I  keep  your  face  ; 


92  LITTLE  BESSIE. 

And  here  I  fit  your  name  to  prayers, 
And  loose  myself  from  trivial  cares. 
No  other  yet  has  ventured  here  ; 
But  would  you  learn  what  is  most  dear, 
Most  tender  in  me,  and  most  true, 
It  never  shall  be  closed  to  you. 


LITTLE  BESSIE. 

COME  back,  little  Bessie,  come  back  ! 
The  door  that  was  opened  beneath  the  snow 
Leads  through  to  a  wonderful  heaven,  we  know. 
We  cannot  doubt  that  your  heart  is  glad, 
But  we — we  sit  in  the  dark,  and  are  sad. 
We  miss  the  laugh  in  your  great,  brown  eyes, 
We  miss  your  look  of  perplexed  surprise  ; 
Our  arms  are  empty  ;  we  cannot  feel 
Your  soft  breath  over  our  eyelids  steal. 
We  dream  at  night  you  are  all  our  own  ; 
We  wake,  and  the  beautiful  dream  is  gone. 
Your  crossed  arms  lie  on  your  placid  breast  ; 
You  do  not  start  from  that  calm,  deep  rest. 
You  always  heard  when  we  called  before, 
But  now  you  are  voiceless  forevermore. 
Come  back,  little  Bessie,  come  back  ! 

Our  thoughts  flew  out  into  future  years, 

And  painted  pictures  of  smiles  and  tears. 

We  watched  the  promising  bud  unclose 

And  blossom  into  a  perfect  rose. 

The  child  that  wondered  at  every  thing  ; 

The  slender  maiden,  that  time  would  bring  ; 

The  bride  betrothed,  with  her  shy,  sweet  grace  ; 


SONNET  ON  SEPARATION.  93 

The  wife,  with  tenderness  in  her  face  ; 

The  proud  young  mother,  with  anxious  care 

Smoothing  the  ringlets  of  baby-hair  ; 

The  stately  matron,  the  grand  dame  old, 

And  then — but  then  would  the  tale  be  told. 

The  story  of  sorrow  still  is  one, 

And  death  must  finish  what  life  begun. 

All  this  in  the  little  child  was  hid, 

And  we  closed  it  in  with  the  coffin-lid. 

So  many  angels  their  voices  raise 

In  ringing  anthems  that  hymn  God's  praise ; 

They  stand  by  thousands  around  the  throne, 

Could  He  not  spare  us  this  single  one  ? 

O  Christ  !  Thou  didst  stoop  at  Lazarus'  tomb, 

And  weep,  and  call  out  into  its  gloom 

"  Come  back,  come  back  !  "  For  the  tears  then  shed 

The  grim  death-angel  brought  back  the  dead. 

We  stoop,  it'e  weep  ;  again  and  again 

We  call  aloud,  but  our  cry  is  vain. 

Our  baffled  love  totters  back  dismayed  ; 

We  veil  our  hearts  and  are  sore  afraid, 

Till,  sitting  dumb  with  our  grief  alone, 

We  hear  the  sound  of  an  undertone  : 

"  Grieve  not,  grieve  not !  for  I  love  her  best. 

She  is  safe  at  rest !  She  is  safe  at  rest  !  " 


SONNET  ON  SEPARATION. 

DEAR,  must  I  always  miss  thy  tender  face, 
And  that  large  love  that  dwelt  within  thine  eyes, 
And  must  I,  when  my  soul  on  heaven  cries, 
Leave  out  thy  name  from  its  familiar  place  ? 


94  THE  MEASURE   OF  LOVE. 

May  God  forbid  !     Somewhere  in  His  domain 
The  angel  in  thee  shakes  its  unbound  wings 
In  joy  to  feel  itself  so  free,  and  sings, 
With  silences  that  echo  to  our  pain. 
Thou  hast  not  gone  beyond  the  reach  of  prayer, 
Since  where  thou  art  God  bends  His  listening  ear  ; 
And  Death's  cold  breath,  that  wintered  all  the  air, 
But  formed  a  cloud  around  a  form  so  dear, 
That,  in  the  darkness,  it  might  seem  more  fair 
To  sit  apart,  yet  know  that  each  is  near. 


THE  MEASURE  OF  LOVE. 

HOW  do  I  love  thee ?     Dear,  I  cannot  tell. 
Thou  dost  not  think  to  count  the  shining 

beams 

That  slip  off  from  the  sun  to  warm  our  earth  : 
The  oak-leaf,  folded  to  a  living  cup, 
May  serve  to  hold  a  single  drop  of  dew 
That  hangs  its  crystal  globe  against  the  green, 
But  it  will  never  tremble  round  a  sea. 
So  is  our  language,  when  we  fit  the  words 
To  deepest  thoughts.     All  speech  is  but  a  growth 
Whose  germ  lies  dormant  in  necessities  ; 
It  never  reaches  out  to  the  divine. 
What  we  can  fully  tell  is  slight  indeed. 
We  turn,  and  twist,  and  narrow  by  degrees, 
And  lose  the  thought  in  the  expressing  it. 
But  God  is  love,  and  what  we  feel  of  heaven 
Is  love,  too  ;  and  my  all  I  gather  up 


THE   OLD   GRA  Y  HOUSE.  95 

In  my  full  soul  to  make  a  gift  to  thee. 
Look  in  my  eyes,  and  read  thy  title  there, 
Interpreting  by  love.     The  infinite 
Alone  can  comprehend  the  infinite. 


I 


THE  OLD  GRAY  HOUSE. 
COULD  paint  you  a  picture  if  I  would. 


An  old  gray  house  that  for  years  has  stood  ; 
A  swift,  bright  river  that  flows  beside, 
And  folds  an  isle  to  its  bosom  wide  ; 
A  yard  that  slopes  down  a  low,  brown  hill, 
Where  summer-juices  the  grape-skins  fill. 
I  could  paint  the  leaves  of  wind-stirred  trees, 
And  the  dusty  coats  of  the  honey-bees, 
And  the  just-poised  wings  of  the  butterflies, 
But  what  would  it  be  to  a  stranger's  eyes  ? 
A  great  old  house  on  the  river  shore, 
A  grassy  garden, — and  nothing  more  ! 

I  could  paint  you  a  mother's  tender  face, 
Thrilled  through  and  through  with  the  soul's  own 

grace, 

The  large,  dark  eyes,  and  the  silver  hair 
That  waves  away  from  a  brow  still  fair. 
My  four  sweet  sisters  !  my  brother  dear  ! 
Could  I  paint  this  picture  and  you  not  here  ? 
By  the  memories  of  our  bygone  years, 
By  our  childish  laughter,  our  causeless  tears  ; 
By  the  games  we  played  in  that  yard  of  old, 
The  hopes  we  cherished,  the  tales  we  told, 
As  the  picture  deepened  beneath  my  hand 
You  would  smile,  and  tremble,  and  understand. 


g6  TIME. 

You  would  know  the  branch  of  the  apple-tree 
Where  we  sat  afloat  on  a  blossom-sea  ; 
You  would  smell  the  odors  from  garden-beds 
Where  the  pansies  nodded  their  pretty  heads  ; 
You  could  find  in  the  dark  the  fragrant  spots 
That  were  sweet  with  the  ghosts  of  forget-me-nots, 
And  of  white  day-lilies,  that  show  a  face 
That  can  smile  but  once  in  a  gloomy  place. 
The  old  gray  house  would  be  full  for  you 
Of  dreams  and  memories,  dear  and  true  ; 
Of  childhood's  fancies  that  no  child  tells  ; 
Of  lover's  kisses  and  marriage-bells. 

You  would  hear  the  echo  of  each  old  song 

That  the  sweet  piano  shook  out  so  long, 

When  our  flying  fingers  along  the  keys 

Went  pressing  the  springs  of  hid  melodies. 

I  could  paint  you  all  that  is  bright  and  glad, 

But  should  draw  the  veil  where  the  times  were  sad. 

Shall  the  stranger  know  how  our  tears  were  shed  ; 

Shall  he  count  the  hopes  that  lie  still  and  dead  ? 

Our  joys  fly  swiftly  from  tongue  to  tongue, 

But  the  tried  friend  knows  when  the  heart  is  wrung. 

Yes,  the  old  gray  house  of  our  lives  is  part. 

I  have  painted  the  picture  from  my  heart. 


TIME. 

OTIME,  swift  runner  between  birth  and  death ! 
Thy  face  is  radiant  with  imprisoned  light 
Poured  out  on  thee  from  two  eternities, 
That  edge,  on  either  side,  thy  narrow  beat. 


TIME.  97 

Thy  breast  is  shaken  with  thy  stormy  breath. 
Thy  left  hand  robs  our  treasures,  but  the  right 
Holds  gifts  to  gild  our  coming  destinies, 
That  thou,  in  passing,  droppest  at  our  feet. 


Thou  art  the  healer  of  all  human  ill. 

Thy  solemn  eyes  send  out  a  single  look, 

And,  of  our  deepest  sorrow,  we  but  trace 

A  tingling  in  the  chords  of  memory. 

What  heart  is  that  thy  cold  touch  cannot  still  ? 

What  tear-stained  page  in  life's  unfinished  book 

But  thou  dost  set  a  poem  in  its  place  ? 

What  love  that  grows  no  more  nor  less  for  thee  ? 

Cruel  Time  !  thou  bringest  heaps  of  gradual  snow 
To  scatter  it  on  childhood's  sunny  hair, 
And  filmy  veils  to  cast  on  sparkling  eyes 
Whose  gleam  has  magic  for  all  spells  but  thine. 
Thou  teachest  lips  the  song  of  Long  Ago  ; 
Thou  bringest  wrinkles  for  the  cheek  that  's  fair, 
And,  close  behind  thee,  Death's  dark  angel  flies 
To  stamp  thy  labor  with  a  seal  divine. 

And  yet  thou  art  the  kindest  friend  of  all. 
Thy  hand  holds  honors  out  for  men  to  reach, 
And  drops  down  gold  for  hungry  want  to  grasp. 
Thy  fingers  drape  the  folds  of  bridal  lace 
When  pale  cheeks  flush,  and  eyelids  shyly  fall ; 
And  thou,  when  hearts  beat  faster  than  our  speech 
Has  power  to  utter,  teachest  that  firm  clasp 
When  friends  long  parted  first  stand  face  to  face. 


98  WAITING. 

O  Time  !  thy  brow  is  passionless  and  grim. 
When  hast  thou  wept  where  bitter  tears  were  shed  ? 
When  hast  thou  smiled  where  merry  laughs  were 

heard  ? 

Thou  givest,  and  thy  bosom  knows  no  pain  ; 
Thou  takest,  but  no  tears  thy  keen  eyes  dim, — 
For  thou  hast  seen  the  angels  of  the  dead, 
And  thine  ears  listen  to  God's  mystic  word 
That  makes  the  meaning  of  earth's  puzzle  plain. 


WAITING. 

I  STAND  on  the  shore  of  the  tossing  sea, 
And  look  at  the  ship  that  is  just  in  sight, 
And  dream  of  the  peace  it  will  bring  to  me 

When  Dawn  from  her  garland  drops  buds  of  light. 
I  know  that  for  many  the  hopes  must  fail 

That  open  the  arms,  that  suffuse  the  eye  ; 
Yet  gladly  I  smile  as  the  harp-shaped  sail 
Is  painted  white  on  the  far-off  sky. 

I  know  that  within  it  the  people  speak 

Of  home  and  of  friends  they  shall  meet  once  more, 
And  tears  all  unnoticed  roll  down  the  cheek 

At  sight  of  the  long  broken  line  of  shore. 
And  one  gazes  eagerly  on,  apart, 

Half-patient,  half-yielding  to  sweet  unrest. 
O  Ocean  !  breathe  quietly,  for  my  heart 

Is  beating  out  there  on  your  shining  breast. 


HEART  OF  MINE.  99 


HEART  OF  MINE. 

'"PEACH  me,  O  Heart  of  mine,  some  word 
•I       More  tender  than  words  have  ever  been  ! 

Brim  it  with  love's  most  cordial  wine, 
Thrill  it  with  melody  never  heard. 
Pure  as  juices  that  form  within 

The  globes  that  hang  on  the  low  grape-vine, 
Sweet  as  aught  that  the  sun  goes  round 
On  his  daily  track,  make  the  little  sound. 

O  Heart,  how  long  have  we  sat  alone 

In  that  inmost  inner  that  none  else  knows, 

And  mourned  our  weakness,  both  thou  and  I  ? 
We  fain  would  smile,  but  the  bitter  groan 
Breaks  unaware  when  the  lips  unclose. 

We  stretch  the  hand,  but  no  help  is  nigh. 
So  we  learn  the  lesson  of  silent  pain, 
And  fasten  the  bolts  on  our  tears  again. 

Yet  teach  me  the  song  that  is  born  of  tears  ; 
O  sweet  and  tender  that  song  must  be  ! 

And  teach  me  to  lean  on  my  mother's  breast, 
And  say  that  word  in  her  waiting  ears. 
O  Heart,  I  turn  in  my  need  to  thee  ! 

Make  me  as  one  who,  in  deep  unrest 
On  surging  waters  tossed  to  and  fro, 
Speaks  peace  to  others  he  cannot  know. 

Breathe  not  a  word  of  a  fair  young  face 
Fast  wearing  down  to  the  prisoned  soul ! 


100  FROM  MY  WINDOW. 

Say  not  that  violets  on  her  heart 
Will  lie  full  soon  in  a  pulseless  place, 
And  greet  no  eye,  as  the  thick  years  roll. 

What  words  thou  must  speak,  as  deep  tears 

start, 

Must  first  be  wrung  from  grief's  bitter  cup, 
And  from  love's  clear  chalice  be  offered  up. 

I  will  not  utter  in  friendship's  ear 

The  word,  O  Heart,  that  thou  givest  me. 

Nor  cheek  of  lover  shall  ever  glow 
In  warm  response  to  that  whisper  dear. 
No  careless  stranger  shall  ever  see 

The  printed  word  that  we  only  know. 
I  would  but  charm  from  its  dwelling-place 
That  anxious  look  on  my  mother's  face. 


FROM  MY  WINDOW. 

MY  narrow  window  frames  a  square 
Of  sky  cut  from  the  full,  wide  west, 
And  sweeping  with  the  sweeping  air 

Or  quiet  as  the  sleep-stilled  breast. 
Sometimes  the  clouds,  in  fleecy  heaps, 

Obstruct  the  shining  paths  of  day, 
Or  build  intangible,  thin  steeps, 

A  zephyr's  wing  might  brush  away  ; 
Or  night  draws  down  her  filmy  lids 

To  shade  her  thousand  starry  eyes, 
Or,  throned  on  sable  banks,  she  bids 

Her  moon  cleave  through  the  stormy  skies. 


A    CHANCE  LOOK.  IOI 

Now  flocks  of  birds  go  flying  by 

And  in  and  out  the  casement  dip, 
And  shake  my  little  bit  of  sky 

Like  words  that  falter  on  the  lip. 
And  now  a  rainbow  points  its  end 

Down  toward  the  tops  of  three  tall  trees, 
That  all  their  swinging  branches  blend 

And  interlace,  in  every  breeze. 
The  leaves  in  summer  dance  and  toss, 

Each  pendant  on  its  slender  stem, 
And  sunset  flings  her  jewels  across 

The  spaces,  and  embroiders  them. 

Or  on  a  clear  December  night 

The  bare,  brown  branches  touch  the  sky, 
And  rifted  clouds  drop  streaks  of  light 

That  fleck  the  tree-tops  brokenly  ; 
Till,  suddenly,  a  rosy  tinge 

Begins  to  hint  the  rising  day, 
And  stars,  thick-braided  in  a  fringe 

That  drapes  the  high  boughs,  melt  away. 
O,  western  sky,  and  flying  birds  ! 

O,  early  hours,  and  vigils  late  ! 
Shall  man  have  power  to  fix  in  words 

What  God  must  daily  re-create  ! 


A  CHANCE  LOOK. 

SHE  at  her  window  sat,  and  spun  ; 
He  walked  past  in  the  street  : 
And  was  it  then  so  very  strange 
Their  eyes  should  just  once  meet  ? 


IO2  GREECE. 

For  he  looked  in  as  she  looked  out — 
Her  eyelids  fell  ere  long  ! 

And  then  again  she  twirled  her  wheel, 
And  tuned  her  broken  song. 

She  could  not  follow  if  she  would, 

So  he  went  on  alone  ; 
And  days  and  weeks  that  lay  between 

To  weary  years  have  grown. 
And  yet  her  face  bursts  on  his  soul 

On  many  a  foreign  shore, 
While  she, — why  does  she  at  her  work 

Sing  that  old  rhyme  no  more  ? 


GREECE. 

O  GLORIOUS  Greece  !     O  land  where  twilight 
lingers  ! 

O  home  where  beauty  long  held  joyous  sway  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stretch  thy  thin  and  shadowy  fingers 

Out  to  me,  dwelling  in  the  light  of  day  ? 
What  is  the  song  those  cold  lips  murmur  over  ? 

What  is  the  charm  that  dwells  within  thine  eye  ? 

Robbed  of  thy  treasures,  wouldst  thou  still  recover 

Fame  for  the  hearts  that  throbbed  beneath  thy 

sky  ? 
Gone  are  thy  marbles,  and  thy  temples  broken  ; 

Even  thy  graves  have  given  up  what  was  dear  ; 
Still  are  the  lips  that  once  thy  praise  have  spoken  ; 
Closed  are  the  eyes  that  shed  for  thee  a  tear. 


GREECE.  IO3 

Once  in  thy  depths  dwelt  naiads  in  the  fountains, 

And  in  thy  dells  the  nymphs  roved  glad  and  free  ; 
Gods  had  their  homes  upon  thine  ancient  moun 
tains  ; 

Dryads  were  happy  in  each  stately  tree. 
Tingling,  the  warm  life  thrilled  thy  verdant  bosom, 
Swayed    in    thy   tall    reeds,    flowed    along  thy 

streams, 

Shook  with  its  wild  throbs  every  trembling  blos 
som, 

Flushed  in  the  warm  sky,  mingled  in  thy  dreams. 
Pan  played  his  reed-pipe  in  Arcadian  meadows, 

Orpheus  enchanted  hard  rocks  with  his  lay, 
Psyche's  bright  wing  moved  through  both  sun  and 

shadow, — 
All,  all  have  vanished  from  the  world  away  ! 

If  thy  proud  trees  sigh,  whispering  together, 

They  but  remember  pleasures  that  are  past, 
When  lovely  nymphs,  in  laughing  April  weather, 

Hid  in  their  rough  bark,  safely  held  and  fast. 
Long,  long  they  grieved,  when  dryads  ran  no  longer, 

With  their  light  feet,  a  shelter  to  implore. 
Once  their  close  hold  was  tenderer,  was  stronger, 

Than  death  itself  had  power  to  triumph  o'er. 
Long,  long  the  branches,  thick  with  foliage  laden, 

Shook  when  a  quick  step  sounded  through  the 

glen  ; 
But  it  was  always  some  warm,  human  maiden, — 

Goddesses,  once  gone,  never  come  again. 

How  did  thy  pools  mourn,  tremulous  with  anguish, 
When  they  reflected  shining  eyes  no  more  ! 


104  GOOD-BY  TO  THE   OLD  HOUSE. 

How  did  thy  sweet  buds  pale  with  grief,  and  lan 
guish, 

Drooping  their  heads  on  the  deserted  shore  ! 
Great,  melting  eyes  from  which  the  lovelight  gushes, 

Rich  depths  of  tresses  floating  in  the  air, 
Bare,  snowy  breasts,  feet  rosy  on  the  rushes, — 

Why  were  ye  transient,  since  ye  were  so  fair  ? 
Where  Pan  once  cooled  his  feet  in  whirling  water, 

All  prints  of  goat-hoofs  long  have  passed  away  ; 
The  sun-browned  hands  of  Homer's  dusky  daughter 

Plunges  the  urn  in  those  clear  founts  to-day. 

Yet  grieve  not,  Greece,  because  thy  gods  are  ban 
ished, 

Nor  deem  the  myths  thou  trustedst  were  untrue. 
'T  is  but  the  outward  form  they  wore  has  vanished, 

The  soul  it  clothed  is  ever  born  anew. 
Thy  yellow  marbles  are  our  types  of  beauty, 

Thy  temples'  fame  has  spread  to  every  shore  ; 
Thy  wise  men  teach  us  still  of  worth  and  duty, 

Thy  deeds  of  valor  circle  as  of  yore. 
Who  would  drink  deep  of  sorrow  and  of  pleasure, 

Or  pants  to  know  life's  holy  mysteries, 
Must  stretch  his  hands  to  raise  thy  hidden  treasure, 

And  light  his  torch  at  thy  fallen  fanes,  O  Greece. 


GOOD-BY  TO  THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

T_T  ERE  is  the  chamber  of  my  rest, 
*•  •*•     Where  I  in  dreams  beheld  his  face  ; 
Where  waking  thoughts  with  peace  were  blest, 
And  smiles  went  twinkling  through  the  place. 


GONE  AWAY.  10$ 

And  here  the  quiet  parlor  stands, 

Where  whispered  words  were  low  and  sweet 
When  first,  with  strong  and  tender  hands, 

He  raised  me  till  our  lips  could  meet. 

The  white  sleep-angel  folds  his  wings 

But  once  across  my  closing  eyes, 
Before  the  pictures  that  he  brings 

Out  from  the  hidden  past  arise. 
The  old  life  blossoms  to  the  new, 

Yet  joy  still  finds  room  for  a  tear  ; 
Good-by,  old  house  !     Your  walls  are  true, 

So  keep  my  secret  treasured  here. 


GONE  AWAY. 

SHE  has  gone  into  the  sea  of  space, 
Held  in  the  arms  of  the  dying  year  ; 
Minute  by  minute,  upon  her  face 
He  laid  a  smile  for  eternity  ; 
Minute  by  minute,  he  wore  the  trace 
Of  earthly  sorrow  and  pain  away, — 
Weakened  the  flesh  that  bound  her  here, 
Strengthened  the  part  that  can  never  die, — 
Till  the  finished  soul  flashed  out  one  day, 
Lingered  a  moment  to  say  "  Good-by  "  ; 
And  the  Old  Year  carried  her  on  his  breast 
Forth  to  the  portals  that  guard  her  rest ; 
And  the  grief  she  shook  from  her  hands  forever, 
Fell  on  our  hearts  to  leave  them  never. 


106  GONE  AWAY. 

O  men  and  women,  forbear  to  speak 

Of  what  shall  be  as  the  years  roll  on  ! 

Lift  those  long  eyelashes  from  the  cheek 

Our  kisses  wonder  to  find  so  cold. 

Our  love  is  strong,  if  our  strength  is  weak  ! 

Kindle  the  light  of  those  clear,  gray  eyes  ! 

Call  back  the  something  we  feel  is  gone, 

The  mystic  something  we  found  of  old  ! 

Rend  asunder  the  golden  skies, 

And  give  her  back  for  our  arms  to  hold  ! 

Or,  if  your  power  does  not  reach  to  this, 

All  is  idle  and  meaningless. 

Words  are  dry  as  the  clods  above  her, 

When  you  speak  them  to  those  who  love  her. 

Be  still,  for  grief  is  a  sacred  thing, 

And  alien  lips  may  not  soothe  the  smart ; 

Your  words  are  strange  to  the  sorrowing  ; 

They  flow  too  smooth  from  the  happy  lips 

That  else  part  only  to  smile  and  sing. 

O  my  sweet  sister,  my  sister  yet, 

Though  Death's  chill  whisper  has  stilled  your  heart, 

And  hid  your  spirit  in  swift  eclipse  ! 

How  glad  that  smile,  and  without  regret, 

That,  as  alive,  on  your  dead  mouth  keeps  ! 

O  let  me  joy,  by  that  death-long  smile, 

To  feel  you  guarded  from  pain  or  guile  ! 

If  one  must  weep  for  the  other  parted, 

God  knew  the  one  that  was  stronger-hearted. 


UNTRUE. — IF  THEY  KNEW.  IO/ 


UNTRUE. 

SHE  wears  a  kiss  upon  her  lips, 
A  ring  upon  her  finger. 
Why  should  that  look  of  restless  woe 

Around  her  sad  eyes  linger  ? 
Why  should  she  glance  with  hate  and  fear 

Upon  that  sacred  symbol, 
While  yet,  along  life's  pleasant  walks, 
Her  steps  are  light  and  nimble  ? 

It  is  my  kiss  upon  her  mouth, 

And  his  the  ring  she  's  wearing  : 
Her  truth  passed  like  a  parting  soul, 

And  left  us  both  despairing. 
If  love  has  found  one  woman  pure 

Where  sin's  dark  cup  runs  over, 
My  soul  elects  her  for  a  judge 

Between  this  maid  and  lover 


IF  THEY  KNEW. 

IF  only  my  mother  knew 
How  my  heart  is  hurt  within  me, 
She  would  take  my  face  in  her  tender  hands 
And  smooth  my  cheek,  as  she  used  to  do 
In  the  days  that  seem  so  long  ago, 
When  childish  tears  were  quick  to  flow  ; 
She  would  smooth  my  face  with  her  tender  hands 
If  she  felt  the  grief  within  me. 


108        /  HAVE   SEEN  THEM  TOGETHER. 

If  only  my  lover  knew 

Of  the  surging,  passionate  sorrow, 

He  would  hold  me  close  to  his  sturdy  breast, 

As  once  he  held  me  the  long  hours  through, — 

When  we  had  not  learned  to  live  apart, 

But  leaned  for  love  on  each  other's  heart ; 

He  would  hold  me  close  to  his  heaving  breast, 

If  he  guessed  my  passionate  sorrow. 

But  it  pierces  me  like  a  knife 

To  think  that  they  do  not  know  it ; 

To  think  they  can  look  in  my  pleading  eyes, 

Yet  never  question  my  hidden  life  ; — 

Can  touch  my  lips  in  the  same  old  place 

Yet  never  look  for  the  soul  in  my  face. 

Oh,  the  tears  are  bitter  that  fill  my  eyes 

To  know  that  they  do  not  know  it ! 


I  HAVE  SEEN  THEM  TOGETHER. 

I   HAVE  seen  them  together, 
As  I  sat  alone. 

His  eyes  shone  with  pleasure  ; 
The  tears  filled  my  own. 

I  have  seen  them  together  ; 

His  kisses  were  sweet. 
O  Heart !  hast  thou  felt  this, 

And  dost  thou  still  beat  ? 


THE   MIRACLE.  109 


THE  MIRACLE. 

TN  the  old,  sweet  story  that  John  wrote  down 

•*•     To  stir  the  hearts  of  a  world  of  men, 

A  blind  man  begged  in  Jerusalem. 

It  was  nothing  strange.     Who  remembers  when 

In  this  great,  glad  world,  in  the  midst  of  all 

The  joy  and  glory,  none  sat  apart, 

With  a  dead  hope  kept  from  the  common  sight, 

And  the  closing  stone  rolled  against  his  heart  ? 

It  was  nothing  new  ;  so  the  multitudes 
Went  surging  by,  without  thought  or  care, 
Until  One  drew  out  from  the  busy  throng 
And  paused  by  the  blind  man  waiting  there. 
No  silver  shone  in  His  outstretched  hand, 
Yet  priceless  the  gift  that  He  bore  that  day  ; 
For  His  love  reached  out  to  the  springs  of  sight, 
And  the  life-long  darkness  was  torn  away. 

In  the  old,  sweet  story  that  John  wrote  down 

No  word  is  whispered  of  after-years, 

Did  he  follow  Christ  through  the  sunny  streets, 

And  pour  out  worship  like  falling  tears  ? 

When  the  Master  spoke,  was  there  one  who  heard 

The  large  truths  said,  though  the  words  were  brief? 

When  the  Master  died,  was  he  kneeling  there 

His  whole  soul  shaken  with  love  and  grief  ? 

Or  did  he  turn  to  the  world  again — 

The  world  made  bright  to  his  seeing  eyes, — 


HO  THOUGHTS. 

And  lose  the  thankfulness  from  his  heart, 
And  those  pulsations  of  glad  surprise  ? 
Was  his  life  belittled  by  anxious  cares 
And  reckonings  for  the  morrow's  gain  ? 
Did  his  heart  forget  all  its  sad,  dark  days  ? 
Was  Love's  great  miracle  wrought  in  vain  ? 

What  tongue  shall  tell  us  ?     One  after  one 

The  solemn  centuries  fall  to  dust, 

And  the  old,  old  mystery  still  remains 

Of  blinded  eyes,  and  of  wavering  trust. 

Love  works  his  miracles  in  our  hearts  ; 

Faith  points  her  hand  to  the  distant  skies. 

We  shall  know,  perhaps,  when  the  touch  of  death 

At  last  leaves  open  the  soul's  dim  eyes. 


THOUGHTS. 

OH,  what  may  be  an  angel's  thoughts 
Just  brought  before  God's  sacred  throne, 
Who,  'mid  ten  million  breathing  harps, 
Half  human,  first  essays  his  own  ! 

But  what  may  be  a  mortal's  thoughts 
Who  holds  God's  secrets  in  his  eyes, 

As  the  Norse  mountain,  peak  by  peak, 
Reflected  in  the  still  lake  lies  ! 


A   MEETING. — A   PORTRAIT.  Ill 


A  MEETING. 

WE  took  each  other  by  the  hand 
Who  had  not  met  for  years, 
And  on  our  cheeks  we  felt  the  warmth 
Of  sudden-falling  tears. 

Our  joy  and  grief  together  poured 
As  still  our  feelings  wrought, 

And  love  could  scarcely  find  the  words 
That  fitted  to  our  thought. 

For  we  remembered,  when  we  last 

Looked  in  each  other's  face 
A  woman's  eyes  shone  on  us  both, 

And  blessed  the  whole  dim  place. 

O,  have  you  ever  closed  the  eyes 
That  looked  most  sweet  to  you, 

And  leaned  above  the  coffin-lid, 

And  felt  your  heart  drawn  through  ? 

And  do  you  think  that  we  could  meet 

Without  a  shaken  heart, 
When  death  for  her  and  life  for  us 

Held  our  tired  hands  apart  ? 


O 


A  PORTRAIT. 

MEMORY,  swing  the  shut  doors  back  for  me, 
And  let  me  see  again  the  face  I  loved  ! 


Eyes  gray  and  tender  as  the  morning  gloom, 
When  the  warm  light  comes  through  it  ;  snowy  lids 


112  A   DREAM  OF  PYGMALION. 

That  rose  and  fell  like  the  bright  tides  of  love  ; 
The  whole  closed  round  with  thick,  brown,  curling 

hair. 

A  brow  whose  innocence  made  one  afraid 
To  tell  his  own  wild  thoughts  to  his  own  soul ; 
A  look  so  childlike  that  one  half  forgot 
She  was  a  woman  grown,  until  the  blush 
Grew  in  her  cheek  to  find  it  gazed  upon. 
Withal,  a  sensitive,  sweet  mouth — a  mouth 
That  had  a  glad  smile  for  me  always  ! 

O  Memory,  swing  fast  the  door  again  ! 
My  heart  will  break  if  I  remember  more  ! 


A  DREAM  OF  PYGMALION. 

OLOVE,  to  dream  myself  back  through   the 
centuries, 

And  be  Pygmalion  !     To  feel  the  thrill 
Creep  tingling  through  my  veins,  as  the  deep  eyes 

Came  forth,  the  lovely  creatures  of  my  will ! 
To  set  the  fine  veins  in  the  dimpled  hands  ! 

To  round  the  curves  about  the  unstirred  breast ! 
To  poise  the  light  foot  on  the  rippled  sands, 
And  fix  the  beauty  I  but  half  had  guessed  ! 

And  then  the  hush  and  glory  of  surprise 
When  from  her  pedestal  the  goddess  moved, 

By  love  made  woman,  sweet  with  mysteries 

Of  blush  and  downcast  eyes  that  told  she  loved 


WAIT.  113 

0  golden  moment,  when  the  veins  he  traced 
First  throbbed,  and  first  the  unsealed  lips  did 

part, 

And,  where  his  careful  hand  the  clasp  had  placed, 
The  carven  robe  swelled  on  a  beating  heart ! 

And  yet  the  sculptor,  had  he  but  the  might 

To  dream  a  happy  dream  of  present  days, — 
Could  Galatea's  eyes  have  won  their  light, 

Her  form  its  soul,  from  his  impassioned  praise  ? 
A  subtler  mind  than  his  hath  thought  thee,  Love, 

A  Hand  divine  moulded  each  perfect  limb. 
Thy  face  was  drawn  from  angel  choirs  above  ; 

Thy  soul  was  kindled  at  a  star  by  Him. 

1  dare  not  say  that  none  may  equal  thee. 

The   Mind   that   made    thee    holdeth    many   a 

thought. 

Why  should  His  power  be  narrowed  down  by  me, 
That    I    should    measure    out    what    He    has 

wrought  ? 
But  at  thine  eyes  my  spirit  drinks  full  deep 

A  cordial  nobler  than  all  earthly  wine  ; 
And  all  my  heart  swells  till  I  fain  would  weep, 
Because  I  know  thee  mine.     I  swear  it !     Mine  ! 


WAIT. 

\1  7  AIT,  wait !   In  the  bud  the  flower  lies  sleeping, 

*  '       Her  white  arm  under  her  golden  head. 
The  dreams  that  into  her  heart  come  creeping 
Will  leave  their  memories  in  her  keeping. 


114  A   WHITE  ROSE. 

Some  day,  when  the  flower  stands  straight  at  your 

feet 

And  you  find  that  her  breath  is  pure  and  sweet, 
Be  you  sure,  in  the  dusty  garden  bed 
The  flower  remembers  a  dream  that  is  dead. 

The  mummied  butterfly  low  is  swinging 

His  dim  brown  case  where  the  thick  leaves  cling  ; 

Their  bright  paths  into  the  blossoms  winging 

The  merry  bees  at  their  work  go  singing ; 

The  butterfly  lies  secure  in  rest, 

With  gay  wings  wrapped  on  his  dusky  breast. 

Wait,  wait  !     For  waiting  and  silence  bring 

The  strength  and  ardor  for  every  thing. 

Wait,  only  wait !     For  your  life  shall  sweeten 
Down  to  its  core  in  the  suns  of  years. 
Ere  golden  grain  from  the  chaff  be  beaten, 
Ere  we  crown  the  year  with  a  garland  wheaten, 
Long  months  of  ripening  must  go  by  ; 
Slow  moons  crawl  over  the  changing  sky. 
Shake  off  the  hurry  and  needless  fears, 
And  smiles  will  shine  in  the  place  of  tears. 


A  WHITE  ROSE. 

THERE  grows  a  rose  within  my  sight, 
Set  high  upon  its  pliant  stem. 
All  other  roses  in  the  place — 
Look  close  !     One  will  not  fail  to  see 
A  trace  of  earthliness  in  them. 
If  one  half-hides  a  blushing  face 


WINTER.  1 1 5 

The  sun  has  looked  too  warmly  there  ; 
And  one  through  soft,  green,  mossy  hair 
Looks  coyly  out  to  peep  at  me  ; 
Or,  if  one  pull  the  leaves  apart, 
A  burning  thought  deep  in  the  heart 
Has  left  its  stain  on  one  sweet  rose  ; 
And  one  in  vivid  crimson  glows  ; 
But  this — this  single  rose  is  white. 

And  what  am  I  that  I  should  dare 

To  claim  this  white  rose  for  my  own  ? 

There  is  but  one  in  all  the  town 

May  fitly  wear  it  on  her  breast ; 

The  bud  kept  pure  for  her  alone. 

Sweet,  if  those  modest  eyes  of  brown 

Fall  on  this  flower  before  it  dies, 

And  in  those  folds  of  lace  it  lies, 

To  rise  and  fall  in  cradled  rest, — 

It  may  be  that  its  quick  fine  ear 

The  heart-beats  underneath  may  hear. 

O  bid  that  heart  say  to  the  rose  : 

"  The  whitest  love  the  longest  glows, 

And  more  than  sweetness  nestles  there  !  " 


WINTER. 

O  WINTER,  come  ! 
For  we  remember  frosty  nights  when  moon 
light 

Dropped  in  long  rays  down  through  the  biting  air, 
And  all  the  stars  were  caught  in  films  of  silver 

Punctured  by  vagrant  glitter  everywhere. 
Come,  hang  on  our  low  eaves  thy  icy  banners, 


1 16  WINTER. 

And  rim  for  every  pond  its  shallow  bowl, 
And  sift  thy  fine,  white  powder  through  the  grasses, 

And  fringe  the  bushes  with  thy  aureole. 
Lay  thick  thy  folds  across  the  earth's  cold  bosom, 

Depend  thy  jewels  in  the  hill's  brown  ear, 
And,  where  the  last  leaves  tremble  on  the  branches, 

Give  to  their  constancy  a  gleaming  tear. 
The  patient  evergreen  has  long  been  waiting 

For  whom  the  summer  bears  no  gorgeous  crown  ; 
She  only  of  the  trees  still  wears,  to  grace  thee, 

Her  dull  green  garments  folded  closely  down. 
O  Winter,  point  with  white  each  tiny  needle, 

And  in  and  out  the  branches  toss  thy  hands 
Until,  half-hid  in  pearly  mists  of  splendor, 

Thy  long,  slow  kisses  move  her,  as  she  stands. 
Here,  where  the  wood-plants  shroud  their  wrinkled 
blossoms, 

With  thy  stiff  finger  trace  the  shrivelled  vein  ; 
Fill  all  the  hollows  where  the  Fall  is  dying 

With  the  kind  level  of  thy  frozen  rain. 

O  Winter,  set  thy  lips  to  thy  great  trumpet 

And  send  a  long,  strong  blast  out  into  space  ! 
Spring,  when  she  sings,  shakes  all  her  bordering 
daisies  : 

Glad.  Summer,  with  the  smile  warm  on  her  face, 
Sends  those  low  songs  she  loves  like  winged  things 
skyward  : 

While  Autumn,  glass  in  hand,  is  hoarse  with  wine. 
But  thou,  O  Winter  !     Thou,  great  Music-Spirit ! 

Dost  claim  all  melody  as  rightly  thine, 
Like  some  old  Master  brooding  o'er  his  organ, 

Whose  soul  steals,  bit  by  bit,  into  the  keys. 


WINTER.  117 

Dumb  is  the  sky ;  its  vast,  dark  porch  is  silent, 

Until  thy  hands  stretch  toward  the  waiting  trees. 
Thy  fingers  are  the  winds  :  the  trees  bend  over 

And  speak  thy  thoughts  through  every  twirling 

leaf- 
One  wild,  swift  chord  that  whips  the  boughs  to 
gether 

As  if  a  prisoned  anger  sought  relief  ; 
Then,  one  by  one,  the  notes  are  flung  asunder, 

Still  bound  forever  by  one  solemn  strain, 
And  through  the  dissonance  one  almost  loses 

The  dim  completeness  of  that  weird  refrain. 
The  blowing  grasses  speak  throughout  the  pauses 

And  fill  the  stops  with  faint  songs  of  their  own  ; 
While,  underneath  its  cloak  of  ice,  the  river 

Keeps  muttering  its  ceaseless  monotone. 
Yet  come  not  as  a  warrior.     Drear  and  barren 

Are  those  bleak  stars  that  thou  hast  made  thy  own. 
And  none  are  left  to  praise  thee  where,  victorious, 

Above  extinguished  fires  is  set  thy  throne. 
In  every  home  we  build  an  altar  to  thee, 

Heaped  high  with  treasures  from  an  age  gone  by, 
And  here  the  growth  of  many  a  fragrant  summer 

Ascends  in  smoke  to  greet  a  wintry  sky. 
Where  power  is  great  and  greatly  used,  we  love  it  ; 

But,  where  thy  wheel  in  widening  circles  rolls, 
Where  thy  strong  hand  buffets  an  airless  planet, 

Yet,  know  a  mightier  Power  than  thine  controls. 
There  is  a  Law  that  moves  in  constant  cycles  ; 

It  moulds  the  burning  globe  of  every  sun  ; 
It  draws  in  curves  a  million  unseen  pathways, 

And  drives  a  plunging  light  on  every  one. 
When  He  has  measured  out  thy  long  dominion 


Il8  A    SONG  TO  LOVE. 

Quick  from  thy  straining  hand  the  rod  shall  fall, 
And  summer's  shrill,  high  treble  shall  sound  farther 

Than  thy  deep  bass  urged  to  its  utmost  call. 
Roses  shall  blow  ;  the  jointed  reeds  shall  whisper  ; 

Forget-me-nots  shall  paint  an  earthly  sky  ; 
Through  every  leaf  the  fire  of  life  shall  quiver, 

And  thou  shalt  live  but  as  a  memory. 


A  SONG  TO  LOVE. 

OLOVE,  come  near  !    I  would  sing  thee  a  song. 
I  sang  for  the  world,  but  she  turned  away. 
These  are  not  her  times  for  song ;  her  ear 
When  coins  are  counted  is  quick  to  hear, 
But  she  spares  no  thought  for  the  birds  of  May, 
If  they  sing  her  right  or  they  sing  her  wrong. 
Her  hand  is  rounded  to  scrape  up  gold ; 
A  flower  would  drop  from  its  spurning  hold. 
If  she  turn  her  eyes 
To  the  sunset  skies, 

She  may  miss  a  tithe  of  her  yellow  prize  ; 
And,  held  and  bound 
From  outside  sound, 

Her  thoughts  turn  aimlessly  round  and  round. 
So,  Love,  come  near.    I  would  sing  thee  a  song. 

Oh  !  many  a  poet  has  sung  for  thee, 

With  words  that  glowed  as  they  left  the  heart 

In  verses  fashioned  in  every  clime. 

Yet  know,  if  my  thoughts  could  flow  out  in  rhyme, 

As  strong  as  a  mountain,  as  swift  as  a  dart, 

As  high  as  to  heaven,  as  deep  as  the  sea, 


TO  A   MARBLE  MERCURY.  1 19 

Upholding  the  right,  and  outbarring  the  wrong, 

Would  peal  forth  the  notes  of  my  beautiful  song. 

As  solemn  as  death, 

As  gentle  as  breath, 

They  would  brighten  all  hope,  and  sweeten  all  faith. 

So,  Love,  come  near 

To  pause  and  hear 

The  fountain-bursts  from  my  brain  to  thy  ear — 

Though  many  a  poet  has  sung  for  thee. 


TO  A  MARBLE  MERCURY. 

BENEATH  thy  marble  mask,  what  pains  must 
tear  thee 

Since,  having  bound  thy  sandals  on  thy  feet, 
Earth  holds  thee  captive  here,  and  will  not  spare 

thee, 

For  that  thy  image  is  so  fair  and  sweet ! 
Long  in  thy  chains,  what  visions  were  entrancing 

Of  skies  when  morning  in  her  soft,  pink  ear 
Hangs  one  bright  star,  her  loveliness  enhancing  ; 
Or  when  the  lark  drops  through  the  dewy  air, 
His  early  song  half  glory  and  half  prayer. 
Or  dost  thou  yearn  for  purple  clouds  and  golden 

That   surge   in   waves   across    the    sun's   bright 

shield, 
Remembering  the  fires  of  sunsets  olden 

When   thy  swift  wings  beat   toward  the  Olym 
pian  field  ? 


I2O  JESSIE. 

What  is  the  message  that  thou  must  deliver, 

Delayed  for  many  a  year,  but  treasured  still  ? 
In  what  deep  vale,  or  by  what  sparkling  river, 

Have  the  gods  charged  thee  to  reveal  their  will  ? 
Those  mute,  cold  lips  are  parted  not  for  laughter  ; 

They  would  but  tell  those  mystic  words  alone  ; 
But  genius,  searching  the  world's  corners  after 

Some  fair  ideal,  froze  thee  into  stone. 

O  Mercury,  thy  destiny  is  human  ! 

Upon  our  souls  are  bound  the  eager  wings. 
Be  sure  to  every  mortal,  man  or  woman, 

A  quick,  fine  spirit  some  one  message  brings. 
Whence  was  it  given?     We  know  not.     Each  to 
morrow 

We  hear  the  words  go  echoing  through  the  brain. 
Clogged  with  our  earth,  and  riveted  to  sorrow, 

We  struggle  to  translate,  but  seek  in  vain. 


JESSIE. 

WE  knew  for  months  that  she  was  going  to  die, 
And   watched   the   spirit   ebbing  from  her 
slowly. 
We  saw  the  shadows  deepen  in  her  eye, 

And  felt  her  faint  smile  change  to  be  more  holy 

She  daily  grew  more  weak,  more  pale,  more  thin  ; 

Death's  purpose  seemed  by  her  sweet  patience 

shaken. 
We  almost  saw  the  soul  that  dwelt  within 

Come  lifting  its  glad  arms  up  to  be  taken, 


JESSIE.  121 

At  last,  the  quiet  change  came  over  her. 

Death  stooped  to  kiss  her,  knowing  her  pure- 
hearted, 
And,  rising,  left  a  breast  that  did  not  stir, 

And  lips  that  at  the  angel's  passage  parted. 

There  were  the  hands  we  had  so  often  pressed, 
The  engagement-ring  still  shining  on  the  finger  ; 

That  was  her  weary  head  at  last  at  rest ; 

That  was  her  mouth,  where  smiles  were  wont  to 
linger. 

A  tall  gray  shaft  stands  near  her  narrow  bed — 
Not  on  it — for  she  was  so  young  and  slender, 

We  could  not  heap  the  marble  o'er  her  head, 
Nor  burden  that  weak  frame,  so  tired  and  tender. 

Sometimes  we  stretch  our  arms  out  towards  the  sky 
And   dream   she  comes   down   from   the   fields 
Elysian, 

And  weep  in  ecstacy — but  by  and  by 

We  wring  our  hands  to  find  it  was  a  vision. 

If,  sometimes,  stealing  from  the  starry  street, 
An  angel  looks  out  from  the  beauteous  portal, 

And  listens  for  the  tread  of  coming  feet 
Along  the  path  from  mortal  to  immortal, 

And  if  she  lays  her  tuneful  harp  aside, 

And  if  her  song  stops  for  a  moment  only, — 

Although  her  love  grows  deeper  since  she  died 
She  waits  so  calmly  she  cannot  be  lonely. 


122  THE  LITTLE  WIFE  AT  HOME. 


THE  BROKEN  SPAR. 

WHAT  drives  so  fast  through  the  stormy  sea, 
Now  watched,  now  lost,  by  yon  pallid  star  ? 
Two  men  lashed  close  to  a  broken  spar, 
And  whirled  along  toward  eternity. 

Can  life  exist  where  the  wind  and  wave 

With  greed  and  menace  clutch  hand  on  throat  ? 
These  live,  these  speak,  in  the  night  afloat, 

Where  the  ship  shrank  down  to  a  grassless  grave. 

One  voice  !  "  My  brother,  our  grave  below 

Is  drawing  us  with  her  fingers  cold. 

Has  death  forgiveness  within  his  hold  ? 
O  grant  me  pardon  before  we  go  !  " 

A  voice  in  answer  :  "  If  heaven  for  me 
Meant  solely  this,  that  I  should  forgive — 
Yet  know,  I  die  even  as  I  live, 

And  hate  goes  down  with  me  in  the  sea." 

What  drives  so  fast  through  the  storm  and  night  ? 

Two  dead  men,  bound  to  a  shattered  beam. 

One  face  is  lit  by  an  angry  gleam, 
And  one  is  warmed  by  a  smile  of  light. 


THE  LITTLE  WIFE  AT  HOME. 

MINE  eyes  run  o  'er  with  pleasant  drops  ; 
My  life  is  set  in  tune. 
No  nightingale  on  starry  eves 
Has  poured  such  music  from  the  leaves 


A  WAKENMENT.  1 2 3 

That  crown  the  locks  of  June. 
The  queen  that  rules  me  sits  alone  ; 
No  other  shall  divide  her  throne 
Until  this  heart  its  beating  stops — 
The  little  wife  at  home  ! 

She  makes  my  house  the  happy  place 

Where  I  delight  to  be — 

Love's  temple,  kept  by  her  dear  care 

As  clean  as  if  a  god  dwelt  there, 

And  purer  far  to  me. 

With  busy  hands  she  touches  all, 

And  order  follows  at  her  call, 

As  round  she  moves  with  quiet  grace — 

The  little  wife  at  home  ! 

I  see  the  thronging  people  pass 
Along  the  crowded  street, 
And  wonder  if  each  home  can  be 
As  glad,  as  dear,  as  this  to  me, 
And  as  supremely  sweet. 
Whatever  sorrows  may  betide, 
God  send  this  hope  be  not  denied  : 
For  every  man  his  own  sweet  lass — 
The  little  wife  at  home  ! 


AWAKENMENT. 

'T'HE  fires  are  kindled  in  the  eastern  skies, 
*       Yet  no  one  looks  to  see.     My  love,  awake  ! 
Too  long  sleep  locks  the  portals  of  thine  eyes. 
Stay  not  to  braid  thy  coal-black  hair  ;  arise, 


124  ISRAFIL. 

And  the  nice  fingers  of  the  errant  breeze 

Shall  play  thy  handmaid,  while  the  twinkling  lake 
Shall  be  a  mirror  worthy  her  who  sees. 

Come,  let  us  idly  those  vague  outlines  trace 
That  mark  the  skyey  giant,  hoar  and  grim, 

Whose  lidless  eye,  the  sun,  burns  in  his  face, 

Unquenched  by  years,  and  with  impartial  gaze 

Beholds  the  generations,  one  by  one, 

Which  rise  and  die  with  eyes  upturned  to  him, 

And  see  him  changeless  still,  their  race  being  done. 

Arise  !  arise  !     Shake  off  the  drowsy  sprite 
That  weaves  his  feigning  web  within  thy  brain. 

Give  day  his  due,  and  banish  lingering  night. 

May  no  dull  lotos  dim  thy  fuller  sight ! 

Thine  be  the  glowing  heart,  the  thrilling  tongue, 
The  daily  labor  that  inures  to  pain, 

But  lends  such  rest  as  keeps  the  spirit  young  ! 


ISRAFIL. 

HARK  !     What  dread  blast  rides  on  the  trem 
bling  air  ? 

It  is  the  angel  Israfil  who  calls. 
He  puts  the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and  blows, 
And  the  deep  sound  goes  echoing  everywhere. 
Arising  bodies  burst  their  clay-lined  walls  ; 
From  heights  of  ether  souls  fall  down  like  snows  ; 
They  lodge  within  the  trumpet's  mighty  mouth, 
And,  with  his  breath,  to  East,  West,  North,  and  South 
They  fly  out  in  a  swarm  that  fills  all  space, 
And,  searching  through  recumbent  ranks,  find  each 
its  dwelling-place. 


PROHIBITION'  PARTY  SONG.  1 25 

Hast  thou  had  grief,  O  Soul,  to  leave  the  frame  ? 
And  hast  thou,  kept  in  duress,  longed  to  dart 
At  will  within  the  caverns  of  the  brain  ? 
Has  thy  long,  forced  composure  known  the  same 
Old  mortal  feeling  of  unrest  ?     A  heart 
Deprived  of  beating,  hast  thou  gasped  in  pain  ? 
O  has  it  moved  thee  that  the  tender  grass 
Should  spead  its  carpet  where  thou  couldst  not  pass  ? 
And  have  the  spendthrift  roses  wooed  thy  love 
To  thoughts  of  well-known  garden,  or  dim  glade, 
or  rustling  grove  ? 

Then  come  !    Mohammed  leads  the  way.    The  bell, 
The  silver  tongue  of  joy,  rings  with  the  light. 
Celestial  choirs  are  carolling  on  high  ; 
Heaven's  courts  are  emptied  that  this  song  may 

swell. 

Thou  art  alone.     No  eye  holds  thee  in  sight 
Save  that  familiar  Cyclops  of  the  sky 
That  long  has  been  thy  confidant.     Come  near 
The  springs  of  life,  and  drink  new  vigor  here. 
Eternity  is  more  than  man  can  think, 
And  thou  shalt  be,  when  worlds  shall  rage  along 

destruction's  brink. 


PROHIBITION    PARTY   SONG. 

\  1  7 HENCE  comes  that  peal  that  shakes  the  sky  ? 

'  '       'T  is  God  who  thunders  from  on  high  : 
"  Ye  that  have  borne  my  name  so  long, 
Nor  stretched  your  hand  to  right  the  wrong, 
Arise  !     For  this  I  made  you  strong." 


126  THE   CHARGE. 

Freemen,  arise  !     The  votes  that  fall 
Are  counted  in  heaven's  justice-hall ; 
And  with  them  rise  the  mother's  prayer, 
The  children's  cry,  the  man's  despair, 
The  grief  that  sears  us  everywhere. 

Come,  join  with  us.     Our  force  is  strong, 
For  arming  angels  round  us  throng. 
No  fight  for  right  is  fought  in  vain. 
Christ  died  for  souls  ;  we  strive  to  gain 
The  kindred  ransom  of  the  brain. 


THE  CHARGE. 

MEN  who  won  the  battles 
Fought  in  years  gone  by  ! 
Men  who  bore  the  banner, 

Sworn  to  do  or  die  ! 
Do  you  sit  in  quiet  ? 

Do  you  shrink  or  fear  ? 
Up  !     The  country  calls  you. 
Up  !     The  foe  is  here. 

Hear  the  cry  of  childhood, 

Bowed  with  bitter  woe. 
See  the  wife  fall,  stricken 

By  a  drunken  blow. 
Now  an  evil  threatens, 

Scorching  to  the  soul — 
Would  you  know  its  nature  ? 

Seek  it  in  the  bowl 


THE   OLD  MAIDS'   CLUB.  I2/ 

Hear  the  charge  we  bring  you, 

You  who  act  for  all ! 
Meet  the  need  that  beckons 

Though  the  bravest  fall. 
Strike  the  evil  crouching 

At  the  nation's  heart. 
Who  dares  not  be  loyal, 

Let  him  stand  apart. 

By  the  child  that  prattles 

On  your  knee  to-night ; 
By  the  wife  whose  smiling 

Fills  your  house  with  light ; 
By  the  tender  mother 

Who  bent  over  you, 
We  who  can  but  charge  you 

Charge  you  to  be  true. 


THE  OLD  MAIDS'  CLUB. 

OTIME  !  here  prostrate  at  thy  feet, 
Thy  mercy  we  with  tears  implore  ; 
If  thou  hast  taken  what  was  sweet, 

Yet  have  we  ever  loved  thee  more. 
What  can  we  say  to  gain  thine  ear  ? 
Thy  every  moment  is  most  dear  ; 
Thou  art  a  spirit  to  be  wooed 
That  dwellest  amid  solitude. 

Well  may  we  say,  with  trembling  lip, 
That  we  have  never  been  forgot  ; 


128  THE   OLD  MAIDS'    CLUB. 

Thy  frosts  have  taken  care  to  nip 

Our  roses  and  forget-me-not. 
Thy  steady,  never-stopping  hand 
Has  calmly  poured  our  measured  sand, 
And  not  one  grain  or  fast  or  slow 
Fell  out  because  we  wished  it  so. 

The  wrinkles  lie  across  the  face 

That  lovers'  lips  have  praised  as  fair, 

And  gray  hairs  lurk  around  the  place 

Where  once  lay  warm,  thick  waves  of  hair. 

A  shadow  from  the  spirit  lies 

In  the  embrazure  of  the  eyes  ; 

Our  feet  walk  slowly  on  the  way, 

That  ran  in  spring's  first  merry  day. 

We  would  not  mourn  that  this  must  be  : 

Life  is  too  hard  to  live  again. 
'T  is  not  for  this  we  kneel  to  thee, 

And  tell  our  bosoms'  inmost  pain. 
O  Time,  our  secret  we  have  kept ; 
But,  when  we  waked  and  when  we  slept 
One  thought  came  ever,  as  thoughts  can — 
A  man  !  a  man  !  a  man  !  a  man  ! 

We  ask  no  gift,  no  herald  new 

Of  youth  that  never  shall  decay. 
Who  asks  the  mid-day  sun  for  dew, 
Or  in  December  looks  for  May  ? 
But  grant  we  may  so  hold  the  net 
That  we  may  take  some  straggler  yet, 
And  be  to  Hymen's  altar  led  ; — 
For  woman's  life-work  is  to  wed  ! 


LASTING  BEAUTY. 


LASTING  BEAUTY. 

"Vf  OUR  smile  is  like  the  first  sweet  dawn 
*       That  blushed  away  the  night ; 
Your  glances  cut  like  tempered  steel ; 

Your  step  is  proud  and  light. 
Yet,  when  I  fain  would  sing  your  praise 

And  string  my  whispering  lute, 
Distrust,  her  hand  laid  on  her  mouth, 

Compels  me  to  be  mute. 

O  Lady  !  mark  the  hidden  charm 

That  underlies  the  face. 
Undo  your  soul's  barred  prison-door 

And  learn  a  truer  grace. 
The  rose  that  fed  June's  perfumed  breath 

What  hand  shall  pluck  to-day  ? 
And  she  whose  beauty  is  of  earth 

Is  heiress  to  decay. 

Who  sings  to  Helen  songs  of  praise  ? 

Her  glory  all  is  rust. 
The  worm  alone  can  reach  the  ear 

That  listens  in  the  dust. 
When  angels'  wings  vibrate  and  flash 

Within  the  cloudless  eyes, 
A  beauty  quickens  at  the  root 

Whose  growth  is  for  the  skies. 


130      .  ON  LONGFELLOW. 


ON    SHAKESPEARE. 

MY  Shakespeare  !     Thou  art  mine  by  that  close 
claim 

In  which  the  noblest  is  a  gift  to  each 
Who  will  but  stretch  to  bring  it  into  reach  ; 
And  he  who  will  not,  owns  alone  in  name, 
And  drags  the  banner  of  a  lofty  aim. 
Thou  Cheops  of  the  mind  !     For  thou  didst  teach 
How  men  might  build  the  pyramid  of  speech, 
And,  thought  by  thought,  lead  up  the  ponderous 

frame. 

Full  many  a  poet  has,  in  his  own  day, 
Explored  thy  passages  and  breathed  thy  air, 
Traced  thy  inscriptions,  and  then  passed  away. 
Their  dust  is  dust :  thine,  granite.   What  shall  wear 
Thy  huge,  hewn  blocks  to  weaken  and  decay, 
Or  lay  thy  rocky  intersections  bare  ? 


ON   LONGFELLOW. 

OUR  Longfellow  !     Our  poet  whom  we  love  ! 
Voice  of  the  heart  that  beats  in  every  breast  ! 
Thou,  like  a  skilled  physician,  hast  addressed 
Thy  finger  to  the  quick  pulse  of  unrest ; 
And  in  thy  touch  we  feel  the  hand  of  love, 
We  lose  the  weak  despair  that  is  akin 
To  the  black  fledglings  in  the  nest  of  sin. 
We  feel  the  song  more  lasting  than  the  groan, 
And  see  Eternal  Mercy  on  His  throne. 


HUBNER'S  CHRIST-CHILD.  131 

Thou  dost  not  wheel  the  chariot  of  war, 
Nor  pour  rich  wine  into  a  golden  bowl. 
Thus  kings  are  served  for  hire  ;  the  thirsty  soul 
Seeks  at  thy  fountain  an  unfailing  dole. 
With  upraised  eyes  we  mark  the  distant  star 
That  gleams,  a  diamond  on  the  zone  of  night, 
And  dream  the  radiance  of  its  nearer  light. 
But,  for  the  warmth  our  daily  needs  require, 
We  spread  our  hands  before  the  household  fire. 

As  Moses,  gathering  for  his  history 

The  tales  that  man  had  never  writ  before, 
Passed  in  and  out  of  every  humble  door 
And  sifted  from  traditions  his  full  store 
Of  knowledge  hoarded  but  in  memory  ; 
So,  in  the  common  round  of  life,  thou,  too, 
Didst  part  the  dross  from  what  is  pure  and  true, 
And  what  our  grosser  minds  had  pictured  dull 
Thy  gentle  touch  has  rendered  beautiful. 


HUBNER'S  CHRIST-CHILD. 

WELL   hast   thou,    Hiibner,    guessed  the  little 
child 

Full  of  incipient  divinity 
That  lay  on  Mary's  breast,  or  may  have  cast 

Soft  hazel  glances,  perched  on  Joseph's  knee  ! 
Encircled  by  a  glory  of  bright  hair 

Those  small,  sweet,  Jewish  features  seem  to  show 
A  sudden  dream,  that  raised  the  chubby  hand 

And  set  the  curved  cheeks  quietly  aglow. 
On  one  round  shoulder  rests  a  lily-stem 


132  HUBNER'S  CHRIST-CHILD, 

Where  three  Ascension-lilies  open  wide. 
Bare,  save  for  beauty,  are  the  childish  feet — 
Such  feet  as  every  mother  loves  to  hide 
In  her  warm  hands,  nestled  against  her  side. 

It  is  the  baby-Christ  that  we  behold, 

Clad  in  the  little  robe  that  Mary  wrought 
With  golden  borders  broidered  on  the  white, 

And  every  golden  stitch  a  tender  thought. 
It  is  the  child  that  watched  the  shavings  fly, 

Or  followed  Joseph  through  the  quiet  town  ; 
The  child  that  pattered  through  the  little  home, 

Or  hid  his  face  within  his  mother's  gown. 
O  babyhood,  exempt  from  later  cares  ! 

Time  of  vague  thought  and  frequent  warm  caress  ! 
First  twilight  of  the  senses  !     We  are  glad 

That  Christ,  though  God,  was  human  none  the 
less, 

And  on  life's  edge  was  wrapped  in  tenderness. 

O  little  feet,  rough  was  your  path,  though  short ! 

O  shining  hair,  thorns  grew  to  press  on  thee  ! 
O  little  dreamer,  life  was  kind  and  hard — 

First  rosy  childhood,  then  Gethsemane  ! 
Thy  life  was  spoken  in  antithesis, 

The  cradle  and  the  cross  !     Thou  hast  felt  all. 
Joy  sang  the  prelude  to  the  immortal  psalm, 

And  shuddering  anguish  let  the  last  notes  fall. 
For  thy  life,  lonely  in  its  perfectness, 

We  strain  our  eyes  towards  distant  Galilee  ; 
Yet  joy  to  think  thou  hadst  thy  opening  hours 

Of  human  childhood,  bright  and  sorrow-free, 

That  Hiibner  painted  not  unworthy  thee. 


THE  JE WISH  FLUTE.  133 


THE  JEWISH  FLUTE. 

TT  was  but  a  reed  in  a  sedgy  place 

*•     Where  Israel  pitched  their  camps  one  night, 

With  root  tight-bound  to  the  narrow  space 

Where  its  life-force  gathered,  hid  from  sight. 
Only  a  long,  green,  living  line 

That  summer  drew  on  the  heavy  air  ; 
No  Jewish  maiden  would  ever  twine 

Its  jointed  length  in  her  dusky  hair. 
But  one  in  a  regiment  of  spears 

That  nature  pushed  aloft  to  glisten  ; 
Or  one  of  those  sharply-pointed  ears 

That  the  eager  earth  sends  out  to  listen. 

A  dreamy  man  cut  the  dreamy  reed, 

And  brought  it  out  from  its  marshy  bed  ; 
He  trimmed  and  notched  it  to  suit  his  need 

Until  it  was  empty  and  smooth  and  dead. 
He  gave  it  the  breath  of  a  human  soul, 

He  filled  it  with  melodies  all  his  own — 
Hast  thou  heard  the  echoing  thunder  roll  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  low  wave's  murmuring  tone  ? 
Dost  thou  know  a  fiend's  despairing  cry  ? 

Dost  thou  know  the  note  of  an  angel's  singing, 
The  swish  of  a  planet,  the  hush  of  a  sigh  ? — 

Sounds  like  these  through  the  reed  went  ringing. 

Long  centuries  after,  the  Jews  still  kept 
That  simple  flute  in  their  sacred  heed. 

They  loved  the  spirit  that  in  it  slept 

Or  woke  to  sob  through  the  rough,  hacked  reed. 


134  THE  JEWISH  FLUTE. 

In  the  holy  temple  they  gave  it  room, 

They  hid  its  fibres  with  beaten  gold  ; 
With  one  long  wail,  like  a  voice  of  doom, 

The  music  faltered  and  loosed  its  hold. 
The  splendid  flute  in  its  jewelled  case 

Hangs  voiceless  now  when  the  song  is  swelling  ; 
For  song  still  chooses  the  rustic  place, 

And  steals  away  from  the  gilded  dwelling. 


THE   END. 


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